


Trading Markers

by Brennah_K



Category: NCIS, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Brainwashing, Episode Tag, Episode: s05e01 Bury Your Dead, Explicit Sexual Content, Good Guys with Dark Sides, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Relationships, Implied Torture, M/M, Mental Abuse, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Torture, Sexual Violence, Tony-Whumping, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 28,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brennah_K/pseuds/Brennah_K
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jenny Shepherd pushed Tony into the under cover relationship with La Grenouille's daughter, she didn't anticipate the extent of the Rene Benoit's connections nor the depth of his disdain for agencies and agents, who try to get him through his daughter.</p><p>As a result, although the world at large thinks that Tony's dead, his suffering has only just begun when Benoit hands him over to a business partner to extract his revenge- a partner by the name of James Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Light Doesn't Always Lift the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> There will be a little time shifting of the two universe's to allow Jethro Gibbs and John Watson to serve at the same time (making John and Sherlock a bit older), but otherwise I hope to stay close to canon for both shows - excluding, for reasons that should be apparent, Moriarity's suicide at the Reichenbach Fall.

When a crack of light finally broke through the terrible darkness that he had lain in helpless and frozen for hours, Tony could have shouted in exultation- hoping frantically that Jethro had found him, but resigned to the possibility that it might be one of his captors - if he could have shouted at all. He was just glad that his hours of paralysis and claustrophobia were over.

The face that greeted his when the coffin lid finally lifted was a surprise, though.

He'd known that Gibbs and his team finding him was almost too much to hope for, but instead of one of the gun-runner's movie-typical goons, or the older but admittedly still distinguished Rene Benoit, himself, the first face that he saw was astonishingly plain. 

On the small side, dressed in a plain charcoal suit that might have been off a Walmart rack, the man could have been an accountant if he weren't standing side by side with an arms merchant - the said merchant's hand on his shoulder. His hair was dark black or brown (it was a little hard for Tony to tell, as his eyes were watering from the sudden influx of light) and cut in a short, slightly spiky, high arched 'school boy' cut that Tony usually attributed to "mama's boys" and computer/gaming geeks who still lived with their parents. The man's pale skin tone suggested the leaned a little more towards the latter. 

“Ooooh, he's pretty.” The man cooed, clapping his hands in a slightly childish manner that set Tony's nerves slightly on edge especially followed by the man's next statement. “Are you sure he knows how to kill?”

“He is a federal agent.” Rene Benoit supplied with thin smile that frightened Tony. “... And a former police officer.”

Of course, he knew the man had realized he was an agent. He wouldn't have been kidnapped, drugged, bundled into a coffin, and shipped somewhere if the Benoit hadn't 'made' him, but the man's lack of anger was unusual and more frightening for it's absence. Usually, perps were really angry – murderously angry - when they found there inner circle's infiltrated, and Tony had gotten close to him through family. That usually meant even worse fates for agents and officers who got caught. 

“Yes, but can he kill?” 

“Yes, five confirmed from his NCIS records. Three earlier.” Benoit answered still studying Tony with a calculating look, and Tony can't help but wonder whether the paralytic agent they used on him had worn off enough for the man to see Tony's horror at the thought that there had to have been more than just a suspicion on Benoit's part that had turned him on Tony. 

It had been possible that Benoit could have just gotten wind of an investigation and Tony's recent incursion into his daughter's romantic life had put the man on alert, but that wouldn't have given the man his records. There had to be a leak in NCIS: A leak that could be just as easily turned on his boss or any of the other agents who tried to find him. 

“Ooooh, he's perfect. You always know what I like.” The other man's strange giddiness was striking Tony's nerves like steel hammers, denting his confidence that Gibbs would find him soon, or more to the point that there would even be something left for Gibbs to find.

“Well, you did say that you were interested in having someone that you could experiment on.” Benoit's eyes locked with Tony's as he answered, and if he could have, he would have shuddered. As it was Tony's breathing started to pick up, straining against his mostly inert ribs. 

_Human experimentation?!? Not Good. Very, Very not good! ___

“Now, now.” The man laughed as he reached out to pat Tony's abdomen just above where they had crossed Tony's hands in the traditional pose of the dead. 

“You're scaring him.” He chastised lightly beginning to stroke lightly up and down Tony's abdomen in a manner that, truth be told, frightened Tony far worse than Benoit's suggestion. 

“I'm far more interested in a pet than an experiment; after all, Sherlock has his little mut tropping around at his heels, yapping on command. Why can't I?”

“Your rivalry with that gentlemen is going to lead you into trouble, James.” Benoit sighed shaking his head, as he seemed to argue for the experimentation.

Tony wasn't certain which was the safer option for him; though he decided to keep his ears out for the name 'Sherlock'. Any information on someone who could cause one or both of them trouble was information he could use. 

“Fine, fine.” The man, James, capitulated, though his hands didn't stop roving over Tony's torso in a disturbingly familiar manner.

“A compromise then..." The man answered, then giggled.

_He actually giggled. Who does that? _Tony questioned silently, growing more and more certain of the man's instability.__

"In the 1930's, Robert Thorndike ran some rather interesting experiments with 'wistar' browns using mazes, problem-solving tasks, and simple avoidance conditioning... that I have always wanted to replicate within my own set of conditions. Then, if he proves intelligent enough, I'll keep my little lab rat. If he doesn't, there are always drug trials and other amusing experiments we can try.” 

Benoit shook his head, and turned, seeming to savor one last look at Tony before he clapped his hand against the man's shoulders. 

“Have you're fun, James. As long as this settles the debts between us, I have no further interests in the man's fate. My information says that he did not wish the assignment, and my daughter claims that he did not use the opportunity to take advantage of her, so whatever punishment you choose will be satisfactory; I am certain.”

“Yes, yes. You're writing in black ink, again.” James answered. 

“Then, I shall leave you to your fun.” Rene Benoit commented as he walked away. 

“Goodbye, Rene.” James answered warmly, still staring at Tony. 

If Benoit had seen the expression that Tony saw on James's face as arms merchant turned, he was certain the man would never have turned his back on the man without at least a helmet, bulletproof armor, and armed guards. Tony knew – even before James lifted his gaze briefly to a second floor, rafter, or window that Tony couldn't see – that La Grenouille was not leaving the building, alive. 

James's eyes didn't even flicker when the rifle shot - that Tony had known was coming – rang out. 

“There, there, Wistar, no one else will scare you.” He paused as if musing briefly, then continued, “without my permission, that is, and even that shouldn't be too necessary, if you do as you're told. Now, while we still have the advantage of the succynicholine that Rene so kindly gave you to ease the trauma of your overseas 'flight' in a cargohold... let's establish some baselines.”

Tony's mind stuttered to a halt as the man's fingers slid to his belt and slowly began to pull the tongue of leather back through the buckle...


	2. I've Been Through the Desert on a Horse with No Name

Tim wrapped his arms tighter around Abby as they, Ziva, Ducky, and Palmer stared up from the bullpen at the Director's office, wincing and jumping regularly at the sound of angry shouting that had erupted after Gibbs reported Ducky and Palmer's discovery that Tony might have survived. 

Instead of the elation they had expected, however, the Director had immediately questioned the discovery, seeming to try to poke as many holes in the possibility that Tony had survived as she could until she talked herself into disputing it outright and refusing to revoke her decision that Tony had been killed in the line of duty. When they continued to protest, Shepard had gone so far as to call security to lock down the morgue – refusing even Ducky and Palmer entrance until an 'unbiased' coroner could be brought in to finish the examination. Then things had really gotten ugly. 

Gibbs had been almost silent up to that point, letting the team present their own arguments, but the Director had kept trying to drag him into the discussion with snide remarks and claims that he'd failed 'another' of his agents, and wasn't willing to accept that Tony hadn't been able to come to him for support if he'd worried about being discovered. Some of the other accusations that she'd made against Gibbs had been even more bizarre and -way, way out of line. That had been when Gibbs had ordered them out and the shouting started. 

Fifteen minutes later, Gibbs stormed out of the office slamming the door so hard that the office window out to the hallway cracked in response. 

Watching the boss speed down the steps, Tim felt his gut drop as he remembered the last time he had seen this happen, and he knew what was coming next. His dread was proven in the next second when he felt Abby gasp as she saw that Gibbs' badge and wallet were in his hand as he turned on the second set of steps. 

“No!” Abby wailed almost in his ear as Gibbs stalked toward them, “Not again. Not when Tony needs you!”

“Abs,” Gibbs cut her off, holding his arm out in invitation as he reached them. “I don't want to do it this way, but MADAM director isn't leaving me, any choice. She won't let us investigate his disappearance, and there's no way in hell, I'm gonna leave it alone.”

Gibbs face when he turned turned back to Tim was apologetic, and Tim suspected that he knew what the man was going to say. Leaving Tony in charge the year before had been one thing, but Tim had seen enough to know that leaving him in charge would have been a completely different matter. He might have the computer skills and the general field experience, but he didn't have Tony's investigative background much less a good grasp of the paperwork and details that Tony had handled on a regular basis – playing the role of team lead and second while Gibbs had been in Mexico – to ensure that the Director didn't have a reason to fill Gibbs' spot prematurely. 

“You don't need to say it, Boss. I'll hold those until you and Tony get back. I know that I can't be team lead. With two down, we wouldn't be a complete team anyway.”

“That is three do-wn, Tim.” Ziva interrupted apologetically. “I do not believe that my position 'on the team' would be secure if Tony and Agent Gibbs are not present.”

Tim wanted to dispute that, but they all knew the chances were to high that the Director would reassign the mossad agent to one of her 'special operations' just as she had tried to do with Tony.”

“Your plans?” Gibbs questioned softly.

“I believe that my country has a vested interest in further investigations of an arms dealer whom has had frequent interchanges with our enemies. If perhaps it were discovered that he was instrumental in the abduction of federal agents, our nations' interests might both be served.”

 _For someone who has such an on and off grasp of the language, she can do subtle pretty well._ Tim thought with a sad grim smile as he agreed with her comment. 

“I have some lea-” he began to offer, but Gibbs interrupted quickly, “Don't even think about it, any of you.” 

He turned his glare on the others, before he continued, “We need you here... with your jobs... clearance, and access in tact. I may need to ask you to run leads, and you can't do that if you're not in place.”

“Got'cha.” Abby piped up answering for them all. 

Tim wasn't surprised, though he may have been a bit disappointed when Gibbs turned to Ducky and handed the wallet and gun to his friend, ordering, “Keep an eye out for them. I'll call when I know something.”

Without another word, he hugged Abby tightly, nodded for Ziva to proceed him, and walked to the elevator. 

By some strange chance, just as Gibbs and Ziva reached the elevator doors, they slid open. Inside the elevator, a man in a shaved head and black bespoke suit stepped back for them to enter and studied the scene, his eyes catching on the gun and badge in Ducky's hands. 

As the door closed, Tim wasn't certain, but he thought he heard the man say, “You're just the man I was looking for.”

Turning back to what was left of his team, Tim looked to Ducky for Abby for a clue as to what he should do next. Thankfully, the doctor sensed his question before it was asked and replied, “I do believe, Timothy, that you should join Abby and myself for dinner. Our good director has relieved us of duty until the evidence has been collected and relocated, and one can not expect you to be on call for a case solely on your own. I would suggest emailing this fact to Cynthia and letting her know of your absence for the evening. Even the good Director could not - formally- fault you for taking the evening off after the declaration of a teammate's death.”

Tim almost started to disagree, but the doctor reasoned, “We will need to be fresh and able to respond should Jethro need us.” 

Abby's tightly returned hug made him concede where nothing else would have.


	3. In the Desert You Can Remember Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Moriarity's lab experiments, from Tony's perspective, and what he's doing to hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter entirely plotted out with foreshadows of future events, dark humor from James, and little instances of Tony's cleverness, but when I sat down to write it, it went a completely different and slightly darker direction than I had intended. (Not that it started out as a light hearted fic to begin with, but I didn't quite expect it to turn out as the chapter is now). I'm curious to see what you think.
> 
> Is it too dark? OC for James? For Tony?

Reluctantly, Tony climbed back into the casket and wrapped his arms around himself, trying to ignore the tight cuffs (and little else) that he had been allowed to wear since the moment first moment he'd been allowed out of the coffin to clean himself of James' unwelcome 'christening'. 

He'd earned a twenty-eight minute 'break' that morning by managing to cope with the man's hands groping him, just exactly that long, until he shuddered with revulsion. The man had continued his 'petting', despite Tony's abundant evidence of disinterest, and had given a brief hope that he hadn't noticed the slip, but as soon as he'd tired of his continued failure to rouse Tony's interest, James had glibly announced to Tony's watchers that he'd earned twenty-eight minutes respite between each test. 

The bastard was sicker than he'd even had the ability to imagine that first awful day, but Tony quickly put his resentful thoughts aside. 

There was only one reason that he even put with the James's unwanted attention – for those few minutes of peace it awarded him to ground himself firmly in the memory of who he was and who might be waiting at back at home for him. 

Outside of his 'earned respite', the sicko was forcing him to answer to a pet name 'Wistar' after some damn species of laboratory rat used in his favorite experiments. 

_And really, what kind of nut keeps track of the type of rat used in lab experiments?_

Well, James did seem to be special breed of nut: one with a fixation on making Tony 'respond' to him willingly and an obsession to compete with some other freak who was apparently keeping his own human 'pet.' 

... And apparently the man had decide that his chosen 'pet' was to perform like a lab rat, based on the fact that James had actually built a to-scale human-sized rat's maze complete with a running wheel and food shoots that Tony had to press levers in the right order to activate. Based on the complexity of the room and it's ready availability, Tony suspected that it had been just waiting for an opportunity to be put to use. At least, he thought he was the first to use it, based on the lack lived-in-cell block stench that would have been left behind had someone else been kept in similar conditions. Especially as James' sick humor wasn't quite satisfied with the normal -if humiliating – lab rat challenges and had to add a few 'conditions' of his own - in the form of four snipers posted on the second floor who took pot shots at Tony as he ran the maze. Their rounds alternated between stinging rubber bullets and live rounds, as Tony had discovered on - tripping on the wheel at one point and finding a rather ugly hole shot between his fourth and fifth toes. He hadn't been given much opportunity to look around between 'runs', but he was sure he would have noticed bloodstains.

James hadn't let him out of his maze to take care of the wound, either, claiming that it would interfere with the integrity of the experiment, but later that evening, he came in. After Tony had eaten the only food he'd been provided – a drugged block of cheese – ( _And seriously, a block of cheese?_ )... James had 'taken care' of Tony, ruthlessly pouring alcohol into the open wound then taping it up and turning his unwanted attentions on other parts of Tony's paralyzed body. 

The next day was the first time that James offered him the chance to earn down time between runs through the obstacle course...if Tony would only lie still under his attentions without the aid of the paralytic agents. It seemed to be a point of pride for the man to ensure that Tony respond as enthusiastically and willingly as 'Sherlock's pet', but James had assured him that he could be patient as long as long as Tony complied with his other whims, like answering to the name “Wistar”.

Tony had been revolted almost to the point of vomiting what little food he'd eaten, but knew that even without the injured foot, he was at a severe disadvantage against the snipers, slowed by lack of sleep, insufficient food, and limited shelter between obstacles. Without the added time, he had no doubt that he'd quickly drop to one of the live rounds. Silently apologizing to Jethro for letting anyone else but his lover touch him, Tony had conceded, with the hope of surviving long enough for Jethro to find him. 

_Please hurry, Jet,_ he silently begged. _I don't know how long I can keep going._

“Ohhhh Tony, time to get up.” James' voice carried to the coffin, pulling a groan from Tony. 

It didn't feel like it had been nearly long enough, but he knew antagonizing the bastard wasn't going to help him survive. With that thought in his mind, he grudgingly pulled himself out of the coffin and wobbled a second before trying to catching himself. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Wistar, and you were doing so well. I had almost believed that you'd broken yourself of that pesky that little habit.”

“What?!? What did I do?” Tony demanded, wincing at the depth of desperation in his tone. 

“Why, you answered to _that_ name, again, and I was hoping this wouldn't be necessary, but needs must, I suppose, if we are going to get you to accept your real name... Boys, Wistar seems a bit unsteady on his feet; do help him over to the tv table; there is something that I would like him to see.”

All four of James's men came forward to pull and push Tony over a glass topped table. Beneath the glass top, a flat screen tv, about 48 inches by 48 inches wide, had been mounted facing upwards, at mid-thigh level, with a cd drive facing James, who stood across the table from him. 

“You're a movie-buff, I understand?” James asked spinning the disc on his finger as he watched Tony nod. “What about historical pieces?”

“Never cared much for them, myself,” Tony answered, trying to hide his nerves in flippancy.

“No? Well, that is a disappointment. There is so much to be gained from watching historical drama. Take this one for instance,” he continued, lifting the disc so that Tony could see the rainbow-like shine of it's recorded tracks. “I think this drama will definitely hold your attention and may even clear up a serious misconception on your part.” 

“Before we can start, though, there is the matter of proper form to be seen to. Gentlemen, if you will?”

Before he could defend himself, Tony was grabbed by two of the men, and pushed over the table. They dragged him down, forcing his cuffs down and around the edges of the table the table until they caught on hooks embedded into the sides. As his wrists were locked in place, the other two men grabbed his legs - pulling his hips away until he was forced to lean at almost a ninety degree angle parallel over the table. They forced his feet apart at least as wide as the table legs, if not wider and secured them in place by a metal bar with slots at each end that slipped down and locked into the buckles of his ankle cuffs. Barely a moment later, they forced his knees almost farther apart than he'd known they could go, making him crouch uncomfortably to take the pressure off the his knees from bar that pushed cruelly at their side instead of putting pressure to the back of his knees where he could have bent them without forcing his hips to almost pop their joints as they were pushed outward. 

As soon as Tony was finally immobilized, James pushed the cd in and sauntered around the edge of the table, trailing his fingers up Tony's nearest arm as he walked. 

“No now,” James instructed, pushing Tony's chin back down when he tried to follow the man's progress around the table and behind him, “This is important, a one time lesson, if you will. Hopefully, you'll pay attention, and this will sink in before we need to resort to more drastic measures.”

Almost on cue, the screen came to life, panning across a field of marble crosses that Tony quickly recognized as Arlington National Cemetery. In the near distance, with their backs to the camera, stood a gathering wrapped in a semi-circle around an open grave. Standing across from the gathered mourners, dressed in black with a mesh veil pinned artfully back, Director Jennifer Shepard moved behind the portable podium that had been set up beside the graveside. 

“We gather here, today, to bid our farewell to Agent Anthony DiNozzo, Junior. As many of you may be aware, Tony did not stand on ceremony and requested in his testamentary documents that we not waste money on “maudlin words muttered over a mound of earth.” Instead, he has asked that we join together, after this at Clancy's and lift a glass in his memory. To that end, unless anyone would like to say a few words, we can ...”

“I do, Miss...” a familiar voice interrupted, and Tony nearly choked in astonishment as his father joined the Director at the podium. 

“Junior was always...” His father began, but Tony missed what followed when his hips were pulled back against James's as the man pushed into him and bottomed out in a single shredding thrust. 

Tony's face fell hard against the glass as he collapsed under the painful assault, gasping between choking sobs that were beyond his control to contain. Without pausing for Tony's body to accommodate the intrusion, James pushed his Tony's hips back into the table, dragged himself completely out and causing Tony to cry out in pain again as it felt like his insides were being pulled out of his body. 

James grabbed Tony by his hair, and pulled his head back up to watch, pushing in and bottoming out again on the return stroke, as he ordered, “Pay attention, now Wistar.” 

As the man set up a torturous rhythm, Tony eagerly tried to divorce himself from what was happening to his body and submerged himself in the sight of them lowering 'Tony DiNozzo's' coffin into the ground. He scanned the crowd, hoping not to pick out the familiar profiles of his team, hoping that they weren't there, that they hadn't bought his death and were even then out searching for him, but there were too many people. It looked as if close to the whole office had joined the gathering, and with his team likely to be at the front of the pack, he couldn't be sure whether they were there until the mourners started to thin into a single-file line to lay white roses on his coffin before they lowered it. Near the head of the line, just behind his father, huddled together for sympathy, Abby and Tim slowly approached the coffin, closely followed by Ducky. Crying out with a pain almost equal to what his body was suffering, Tony dropped his head shutting his eyes, despite James's insistent shake. It didn't matter what the man did to him; if he had to watch Jethro lay a flower on his coffin, it would be the end of him.

“Naughty, naughty.” James rebuked Tony, dragging his head back up and riding Tony brutally as he forced him to watch until the coffin was lowered into the ground and covered, punctuating each word with a thrust as he warned, “Now, you'll just have to punished.”

The thought seemed to excite James so much that he finished within seconds, pulled out without further comment, and let Tony's head drop to the glass. The sound of a zipper being pulled back up cut across the sound of Tony's agonized sobs, just in time for him to hear the slap of something into the man's hand. 

Tony froze anxiously, thinking that he'd heard the sound before, and whimpered when he was proven right as he felt a nudge of thick rubber against his abused anus. Before he could catch his breath, to force his muscles to relax, James's hand cupped around the back of the overlarge rubber bulb and pushed it home, grinding his palm against Tony's crack when it couldn't go any deeper. 

The man actually cooed through his scream, working the bulb against Tony's prostate until Tony's cry broke on a high pitched note. 

“That's it, Pet, mew for daddy.” James cooed again as he gestured to the men to unhook Tony. 

Tony staggered as they pulled him upright and hooked his wrist cuffs to a chain that they had pulled into place on a roller track over head. 

“Gentlemen, at your convenience,” James offered, giving Tony a spin before stepping back, out of the way, as his men raised paintball rifles and – at close range – hammered Tony with rupturing paint balls that stole his breath with every hit until he was covered from head to toe in paint and James finally cleared his throat, calling their shooting spree to a halt.

“Such a pretty, pretty canvas you make, Pet. So bright and colorful, maybe we should do this more often.” 

Torn down by pain and misery, Tony shook his head as frantically as he could with the little strength he had left. 

“No? Then tell me something I want to hear: something you think will make me happy. Tell me what you learned.”

The lesson was obvious. Tony had no doubt that he knew what the man wanted to hear, but after what he'd seen, it struck too close to home to say. 

“Come on, Pet. Don't make me do something drastic.” James's hand closed around Tony's throat as he repeated his demand, “Tell me what you learned.”

“Tony DiNozzo's dead.” The words tumbled helplessly from Tony's lips, a half conscious plea for survival. 

“Good boy... And?!?”

“Wistar...” the rest of the sentence stuck in Tony's throat, but James must have been able to read them in the tears of doubt and exhaustion that rolled down Tony's cheeks, for after a moment, the man's thumbs came up, wiping gently under his eyelashes and pleasure colored his cold gaze. 

“That's my good little lab rat. Take him down boys and put him to bed. He's earned a small respite.”


	4. The First Thing I Met was a Fly with a Buzz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The man in the elevator gets his two cents in, almost. Let's just say, "It's not Trent's day."

~ _Two Days Earlier_ ~

Just after dropping Agent David off at her apartment to gather her gear, Gibbs turned in his seat and not so subtly pulled his sidearm as he faced Kort.

Trent had expected it, of course, after bluntly announcing that he was responsible for the explosion that had destroyed Tony's car and prevented the formal investigation into his second in command's disappearance. He had hoped, however, that the task of driving would slow the agent's reflexes at least minutely, thankfully Trent's own weapon had been easily accessible and was already drawn and the muzzle aimed to a point directly between Gibbs eyes. 

“You've got funny way of asking for help.” Gibbs challenged. 

“Help?” Kort asked with a startled chuckle, wondering how sane the man he was staring at was; Gibbs did come with a pretty decent reputation of his own (for reckless behavior, a tendency to go 'off the reservation', and a hair-trigger temper), even in the circles Trent traveled. 

“What makes you think I'm asking for help?” He questioned, curious about the man's logic. 

“Only three reasons you would have gotten my car and dropped a bomb like that.” 

**…**

**…**

**…**

Trent let the time pass, knowing that Gibbs was baiting him, and fully knowing that the silence was supposed to make him uneasy. It was almost an amateur's trick, or almost so. Letting Gibbs continue to drive with barely a glance at the road every thirty seconds was another matter, though, and while Trent was knowingly stubborn and prideful, he was not suicidal.

“Well?” he finally prompted, when it became obvious that Gibbs was all to content to barely glance at the road while keeping his attention on Trent. 

“You're either suicidal, homicidal, or...”

“Getting in any car you're driving should count as suicidal,” Trent grumbled under his breath, but Gibbs ignored him, continuing, “you need my help.” 

“What makes you think it's not one of the first two?” Trent retorted, half acknowledging the point.

“You pulled your gun, so it's not the first, but you haven't used it, so it's not the second.”

“That doesn't mean that...”

“People don't offer up confessions unless they want forgiveness or help. That gun says you know I'm not the forgiving type.” 

“Hrrgh... Fine.” Trent lowered his gun and stifling his frustration. Gibbs really was just as annoying as he'd heard. 

Without warning, Gibbs' arm jerked throwing the truck sideways, and though he'd tried to grab his door handle, Trent fell almost into his lap, just as Gibb's sig-sauer fell and with it darkness. 

**…**

When Trent came back to consciousness, it was with to the annoying but unfortunately familiar feeling of his wrists cuffed behind his back. Gibbs had secured his ankles, too. Probably with zip ties, but with the way he'd secured Trent's hands to the car door, it was difficult for Trent to turn and check. 

_This had been a mistake._

“Talk.” Gibbs ordered, recognizing that Trent was awake again, without even looking. Thankfully, this time keeping his eyes on the road.

“Not interested.” Trent retorted sullenly, stung by the fact that the lowly NCIS agent had gotten the jump on him. 

“Thought we'd decided you weren't suicidal.” Gibbs answered, in a not so subtle threat. 

“I'm in your car, aren't I? That suggests otherwise.” Although he realized that he wasn't likely to get the upper hand, Trent couldn't suppress his first instinct to balk at not having the upper hand. 

**…**

**…**

**…**

Gibbs let the silence drag on even longer the second time, and damn it, it was even more annoying than the first time. Trent hated having his hands tied behind his back, both literally and figuratively. He hated trying not to shift... trying not to let the other person know how much being tied bothered him... hated that Gibbs had so easily gotten the drop on him. 

“Why aren't you asking me any questions?” He pushed, trying to goad Gibbs into an angry response and give him the upper hand. 

“Don't have to.” Gibbs simple (and too calm) reply was infuriating. Gibbs couldn't think that he'd just reveal everything he knew; even if Gibbs didn't realize that Trent was CIA, he had to know by now that he was at the very least a player in the game. 

“I'm not just going to tell you everything, you know that don't you?” He retorted, hoping that he could worry the agent with the possibility that he might not reveal DiNozzo's location. 

“Then why did you come to me?” 

Trent didn't have an answer, and he knew Gibbs knew it. They both knew how the game worked well enough to know that Trent's unsolicited confession of his involvement in DiNozzo's disappearance had been almost the equivalent of coming with his hat in hand for assistance. 

He'd compromised himself when he'd let Director Shepard target DiNozzo as the leak responsible his last team's failed mission – a mission that had left him in rather uncomfortable circumstances for longer than he liked and one of the few fellow agents that he'd actually come to trust buried half a row away from where they'd buried DiNozzo's unlucky stand-in. She'd corroborated her suspicions with verifiable security logs placing DiNozzo in the building after hours at the same time as the leak that had blown his operation occurred, and there was no evidence giving any indication that she'd even disliked DiNozzo to any degree that would have been suspicious. He'd broken camp by running his own op on US soil, which might have been forgiven, if he'd been right; he'd unintentionally facilitated the kidnapping (and forced exportation) of a federal agent; and last but not least, focusing on his plans to take DiNozzo out, he hadn't been in place to track Benoit back to his connection with La Moriar. 

La Moriar, an as yet unidentified criminal mastermind, was believed to have a spiderweb of illegal networks and operations spanning the globe. The agency had been tracking Benoit and dozens of other arms merchants, assassins, mafioso, and smugglers with reputed ties back to the criminal, but Benoit had been the closest they had come yet to identifying him, and Trent had broken camp right at the exact time that Benoit had scheduled to meet with the elusive criminal. If Trent's latest intel was correct, Benoit, himself, had been exposed and taken out. 

There was not a single question in his mind whether his burn notice was on its way. His only hope was to out run it, and double the agency's expected return, but he couldn't do that alone. He couldn't trust the director, doing that had gotten him into this fix in the first place, and other than Gibbs and his team, no one else Trent knew had enough of a vested interest in the results that Trent needed to leverage their help. His only chance of recovery rested in giving Gibbs exactly what he wanted, and from the files he'd found on the Shepard' computer earlier that morning, Trent suspected that he knew what that was, or rather who that was. The fact that Gibbs had clearly been in the process of throwing his job away to pursue his own rogue operation when Trent was on the way to arrange a one on one with the man – only confirmed his suspicions. 

“What if I say I can help you get DiNozzo back?”

“Considering you're the reason he's gone, you're gonna have to say more than that.”

“What would you say if I told you that Director Shepard is the one who put me on his trail and told me that he was the one who betrayed my team on our last operation?” 

“Two things: prove it and bullshit.”

“What?!?”

“Rule 3 – Don't believe what you're told. Double check.”

“Is that in reference to the Director, or DiNozzo?”

“Yep.”

“I can back it up. Been in the game too long not to cover my ass. Everything's recorded on a jump drive hidden in ...” 

“Your spare magazine. Got it.”

“Shit. You're thorough.” 

“Rule 16.” 

“Your rules, Gibbs, haven't made agency canon, yet. If you intend for that to be understood, a translation would be useful.”

“If someone thinks they have the upper-hand...”

“Take it away,” Trent continued, agreeing in principle, despite the inconvenience it caused him.

“Break it!” 

“I see.” Trent acknowledged the barely veiled threat. 

“Doubt it, but we'll find out.”

“Whether you elect to believe me or otherwise, the fact still remains that I can get you what you want.”

“You think you know what I want?”

“I am certain of it. You want DiNozzo back, and that means you want Benoit's last contact, an English man by the name of Richard Brook. He's acts as a go between for another player La Moriar. He's supposed to be the last one to see Benoit alive.”

“Benoit's dead?” 

“It's unconfirmed, but from a reliable source...”

“A 'reliable source' says Tony's dead, too; I don't think much of your reliable sources. If Benoit's dead...”

“Benoit's dead!” Trent insisted, but Gibbs continued as if he hadn't spoken:

“If he's dead, what does that mean for Tony? Been more than 48.” 

“I know, but there's a good chance that Benoit kept him alive... to pay a marker he owed La Moriar.”

“Details.” Gibbs ordered, but Trent had little difficulty hearing the tightness in his throat and the suppressed emotion. 

“There have been rumors that La Moriar... has … interesting tastes...” This was the tricky part that Trent had been hoping to avoid. If anything was guaranteed to drive the reportedly temperamental man into a rage, it would have to be hearing that his 'partner' had been abducted to be sold as a sexual slave to a reputedly violent and unstable criminal. 

“Don't make me drag it out of you.” 

“The rumors say...” Trent continued, trying to distance himself from the message, “that he's been looking for someone to break... and to _use_ , but that so far... at least up to the point that Benoit grabbed DiNozzo, none of his previous subjects have survived very long.”

“This Brook will know where he is?” 

“If anyone does.” Trent agreed as neutrally as possible. He couldn't guarantee that Brooks would have DiNozzo, but the cargo manifest for the British airliner had listed the coffin as carrying an Alfred Brooks, from London. 

“Okay.” Gibbs finally answered pensively. 

Deciding that he had probably pushed his argument as far as he should, Trent settled back into the seat, as comfortably as he could - willing to wait until after they pulled into Gibbs' driveway to be released.


	5. And the Sky with No Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N: ~ ~ indicate flashbacks
> 
> Also, on a small side-note, I've added a couple of rules for canon rules we haven't learned, yet.

Ziva leaning almost into his seat from across the aisle brought Gibbs out of his numb thousand yard stare. 

“Zi-va.” He pitched his voice to quietly warn her off, and would have smiled at the almost childlike pout she'd picked up from Abby. 

He knew the heaviness of his silence had been a red flag drawing her attention to the screen, but there was no way he was going to let her see what he was looking at; no one should have ever seen them. No one but he and Tony, and not really even then because neither one of them had given permission for the photos to be taken. 

Dozens of photos of himself and Tony, caught in private, intimate moments scrolled across the screen, silently narrating the past six months of their slowly developing relationship: Tony leaning against the windowsill in the kitchen, a beer in hand, exhaustion clear in Tony's eyes, The top of his own head barely visible hiding obscuring Tony's ears as he kissed Tony's neck; Tony dressed in ratty shorts (he'd borrowed, of course) washing varnish off his legs- the first time he'd truly put all of his effort into trying to help with the boat (it had been a disaster); Tony's back obscuring Gibbs, his arm wrapped around Gibbs' waist, as they watched steaks browning on the grill; Tony laying in the hammock, beckoning for Gibbs to join him; Himself leaning over Tony, kissing away a smear of whip cream from the ridiculously sweet ambrosia dessert that Tony had thrown together, then thrown out when neither of them had the stomach to eat more than a few tablespoons of the overly sweetened coconut, cream, and fruit salad. Each photo was an uninvited invasion into their private lives and an utter and unforgivable betrayal of their trust. 

In time, they might have shared such intimate moments with Abby, and maybe Ducky, but if everyone thought that he closely guarded his privacy- it was nothing compared to how closely Tony guarded his. Even as close as they'd become, there were subjects that Gibbs knew he couldn't touch, including any thing related to Tony's mother, the truth behind his father abandoning him in Hawaii, why Tony continued to tell such outlandish and over-exaggerated tales of supposed dating conquests when Gibbs knew without question that Tony had been faithful to him since they first started 'seeing each other'. Gibbs had his suspicions of course, but barring the use of heavy doses of sodium pentathol, he didn't think that he'd ever get to the truth of the skeletons rattling around in Tony's closet. 

'In time' would have probably been five to ten years down the road, if how their previous six years had progressed was any guide. 

And Gibbs was okay with that. As much as he loved Abby like a daughter, cared for Ducky like an uncle or even a much older brother, and included Tim, Ziva, and Jimmy in his 'chosen' family as nephews and a niece, or maybe second cousins... Jenny wasn't even on list. Yes, she was an old lover, and she could have been on the list - if things were different- if she weren't always so ready to put someone else between herself and a bullet (literal or not). She could have been his partner, his spouse, the unofficial mother of their close knit group, but family doesn't use family for their own ends – not in Gibbs family at least. 

And _that_ was what made the irony of her betrayal all the more bitter. 

“You found these on _her_ computer?” he asked for Kort's confirmation, as unnecessary as it was. He didn't need the man's statement of where he'd found them, or Kort's interpretation of what they'd meant. 

“Yes, those; digital copies of your cellphone records – cross-referenced to each other's numbers; faxed copies of your credit card balance statements...” 

“I get the picture.” He snapped cutting Kort off, “They're all on here?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, move over with Ziva; bring her up to speed.”

“What about...” Kort's eyes swept the laptop with a quick flash. 

“On a need to know basis,” Gibbs growled softly, “and I decide who needs to know.”

Kort was thankfully silent after that, moving over to both distract Ziva from her none-to-subtle attempts to catch a glimpse of the screen and to lay out what Kort knew about the men who were probably holding Tony. 

Turning his gaze back to the photos scrolling across the screen, Gibbs clutched the laptop to keep his hands from shaking with rage... and to keep himself from deleting the unauthorized photos out of hand. His first instinct was to delete the tainted photos, but he knew that he couldn't erase Shepard's betrayal just by erasing the evidence of months long surveillance. If he did, Tony would always wonder about them, trying to imagine how much they might have shown, how she tried to make them look, the way she composed the shots. No, it was better to let him see the photos and set his mind at rest about what they contained... to let him see the obsession and jealousy painted across each picture as clear as a dusted finger print. 

The bitter irony of her betrayal and the very reason of her jealousy was that Tony had filled the role that Jenny couldn't: Tony had taken naturally to the role of helpmate and confidant; caring for their family when he could not; caring for him when he was at the end of his ropes; buffering the team from his moods; lifting their spirits in their darkest hours; filling in the blanks when they or Gibbs fell short; and somehow staying true to himself and to them throughout. Tony was what Shepard could never be – the heart and soul of their family. 

The Director thought she knew what he was like at his worst, but if that heart was stilled … that soul was extinguished... Shepard would never live to see his worst – outside of the flash of his rifle-barrel in the distance. _That_ he would want her to see... would want her to know it was coming and to know that there was nothing she would be able to do to prevent it. 

That thought was the other reason that he couldn't delete the photos: if Tony died or if he was already dead, Gibbs would need those photos as tangible reminders to both Shepard's betrayal and Tony's memory. He'd forgotten Tony, once, and had no intention of letting it happen again. 

The memento box, a gift from his mother when he was nine, that he had been keeping since third grade now held, in addition to the first bullet he'd dug out of a tree when he was thirteen and realized that he was a ' _rea-l-ly_ good shot, his slowly collected rules, photos of Shannon, Kelly and Maddie, a cassette tape of Kelly's first piano recital, a beer napkin scribbled with a blotchy 'good job' – the first hard-won acknowledgment Franks had ever given him, a folded lace handkerchief that his maternal grandmother used to keep tucked into the straw hat she wore for gardening, his dog tags, and other collected mementos, now held Tim's recording of Tony's stream of conscious rambled response to pain medication burned on a mini cd, a key chain with a small metal St. Bernard, and the bent bottle cap from the cervesa that Tony had sipping on as he stood in the Mike Frank's open doorway, waiting to explain why he'd come down to Mexico knowing that Gibbs barely remembered him and had intentionally left NCIS behind to escape the memories he couldn't access. 

~ ~ Tony, standing in the doorway with a beer hanging loosely from his fingertips and another sitting on the open windowsill beside him, had been an unwelcome sight for the still struggling Gibbs. Gibbs had left Mike Frank's hut that morning to comb the beach for more driftwood to work into a rustic rocking chair that he hoped to sell at the local market. He'd still had some of the money left from his 'go – bag' and if he had absolutely needed to he had known that he could pull more from his US accounts, but the nearest bank had been close to a day and a half ride's distance from Mike's place... and even with his spotty memory, he'd realized that his team would be keeping an eye out for his location and would be watching his bank records for sure. He hadn't been ready to deal with them yet, and sure as hell hadn't been ready for Tony to be standing on Frank's porch. 

~~“What the hell are you doing here?” He'd snarled, throwing the driftwood branches in a pile near the porches edge. 

~~ Gibbs thought Tony might have winced at his tone, but it had been a small wince if he had, and Tony had hidden it well in a shrug as he handed Gibbs the remaining cervesa and picked up one of the folded pieces of sandpaper that Gibbs had left on the porch, held down by one of Frank's cigarette trays (an emptied out cervesa bottle filled with ash and cigarette butts). 

~~ Tony had walked past him, as he was opening the bottle, to the driftwood pile and quickly sorted out one of the nicer pieces Gibbs had picked up. Returning to the porch steps, he sat down and nonchalantly began sanding the tip of the branch, waiting for Gibbs to do the same before he finally spoke. 

~~ “Don't intend to let you go breaking your own rules, even if you don't remember them.” Tony had supplied, and despite himself, Gibbs had been hooked in by the comment. 

~~ “How's That?”

~~ “Number 15...” Tony had offered giving him a brief moment to fill the rule in, before supplying, “Always work as a team.”

~~ Before Gibbs had the chance to respond, Tony had followed up with, “Rule Forty-one... when you have to leave a man behind to get the job done, the job's not over till you bring him home.”

~~ “Not ready to go back, an no guarantee that I will be.” Gibbs retorted sharply. 

~~ “Some jobs take longer than others.” Tony replied stubbornly, “Don't remember what rule that was, but it should have been if it wasn't covered.”

~~ “Rule 42,” Gibbs answered reluctantly, not sure how to handle Tony's too calm approach. It would have been a hell of a lot easier if Tony had taken offense and yelled at him for abandoning the team instead of the inexplicably calm acceptance of Gibbs refusal to return to DC. 

~~ Tony hadn't been finished yet, though. 

~~ “Rule 8, never take anything for granted,” he continued, “Always verify.... Franks can probably answer most of your questions up to 9-11, after that....” he paused pulling out a 'little black book' from his jacket pocket that he set by Gibbs hip on the porch, “That should help... Anything that doesn't answer...”

~~ Lifting his gaze from the black book, back to Tony's hands, Gibbs was a bit startled to see a complicated looking satellite cellphone kit in the agent's outstretched palm. 

~~ “Don't worry, it's not as complicated as it looks. The base is an “add-on” from Abby and McGee; in addition to a 'nifty' deep infiltration battery pack, they have added a handy-dandy channel router and encrypter that will make the signal virtually untraceable for any calls under three minutes in length. Over three minutes – they and only about three other supergeeks in the nation could trace it if they know in advance which channels to cut out in their search. They promised that it's not any more difficult than one of the field units you would have used during the Gulf War. 

~~ “For anything the book doesn't answer, the rest of our team's on speed dial; just push a button, and you can ask your question directly: number 1's Ducky, 2's Abby, 3's Fornell, 4's myself, 5's McGee, 6's our lovely little Mossad, 7's Jimmy Palmer, I doubt there's anything you're really really going to need to call him for, but ... well anyway, 8's the director. I don't know what the deal between you two is, but you seem to have a history, and scrap a lot... and...” 

~~ “And...” Gibbs had pressed already guessing who the last entry was, and was ready to rail at the man for his presumption. 

~~ “And, it looks like I'd better hurry if I want to catch my ride back.”

~~ Following Tony's gaze, Gibbs had been startled to see the rickety bus returning returning two hours earlier than it normally returned from it's route. Tony had shrugged explaining that he had promised he would give the driver the equivalent of five hundred American – if he'd give them an hour, before picking him back up. 

~~ “So let me get this straight, you just took a three day trip down here to drink a beer, give me your little black book, and phone – only to turn around and go back?” 

~~ “Yep.” 

~~“Why are you doing this?” Gibbs demanded. By Tony's unexpected arrival, Gibbs still hadn't been able to remember much more than he had before he left DC... enough to know that his gut told him to trust Tony, but not enough to know why. 

~~ Tony's smile had turned enigmatic as he stared at Gibbs briefly, emptying the cervesa bottle before answering, “you don't waste good.” 

~~ Without another word, Tony had turned and trotted back up the hill, digging some bills out of his pocket and waving them at the driver. In Tony's wake, Gibbs had grabbed the emptied cervesa bottle and cap, tucking the latter in his front pocket and the little black book in his back pocket and the satelite phone went under his bunk – despite Mike Frank's sneer. After Tony had left, Gibbs had started carrying around the little black book and reading at his leisure, but the satellite phone remained untouched for another month and a half, until one of Tony's black book commentaries forced Gibbs to call. 

~~ “What the hell do you mean that Abby doesn't entirely trust me?” Gibbs had demanded as soon Tony had answered with a yawn. 

~~ “And hello to you, too, Boss. Okay, about that Abby trusts you with her life; we all do.”

~~ “Then why...”

~~ “We trust you with _OUR_ lives, Gibbs. Not your own; you've got a real talent for jumping between oncoming threats and your team... especially if it calls for going off the reservation. Not the healthiest of habits, if you take my meaning, and about the only thing Abby doesn't trust you to do – is to keep yourself from getting hurt, or if you can't, at least to make sure that we're around to pull you out of it.”

~~ “From what I've read, I'm not the only one.” At the time, Gibbs hadn't been confident enough, yet, to tell Tony, that he was starting to remember the younger man and that, away from the perspective of their day to day work, he had been able to piece together both his feelings for the agent and what he'd begun to believe the agent felt for him. 

~~ “Guilty as charged, but that's one of the benefits of having a Marine as a boss; what comes around goes around, and I've learned from the best never to leave a man behind. Night, Gibbs.” 

~~ “Night, Tony.” Gibbs had answered, before glancing around at the darkened cabin. The next morning had found him packing up most everything that he'd taken down to Mexico and hiking back up the hill to start the first leg of a three day trip back to DC. 

Running his fingertips across the gallery of photos that the Director had somehow taken of himself and Tony, Gibbs closed his eyes and played the memory of that late night phone call back through his head. 

“Try to remember it, Tony,” He murmured in a barely voiced prayer, “I'll never leave you behind.”

When he opened his eyes again, it was to another memory that had unexpectedly risen to the surface, a memory of another time, another place, and another man he had not been willing to leave behind.

Pulling up the browser's search page, Gibbs typed in the captain's name and hit the search button. 

Three minutes later, he had an address, a phone number, and several interesting news excerpts, mentioning his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MTC....
> 
> Coming next chapter, we begin to see their universes collide. Guess who meet first?


	6. The heat was hot and the ground was dry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics = text messages.

Sherlock's hands were shaking as he cracked open the skylight to quickly snap a photo of the American hanging once again from the mobile hook. 

He quickly typed a text to accompany the image: 

_TK,_  
Package still operative.  
Retrieval Urgent.  
SH 

and quickly dispatched the update. 

It sickened Sherlock to leave the man to the mercies of Moriarity, but on the event of Sherlock's presumed death, Moriarity had pulled the four assassins, previously assigned to John, Mycroft, Lestrade Mrs. Hudson, back to the warehouse to 'train' his latest unwilling recruit, ensuring that, while his friends and family are moderately safe, Sherlock currently had no 'backup' and could not contact the yard without revealing his deception and dooming his friends. 

Without at least the extraction team's support, Sherlock couldn't risk revealing his presence in a hopeless rescue attempt, until he could ensure that this version of Moriarity was the correct version. 

Even having claimed that he could prove that the actor's role had solely been a false identity, Sherlock hadn't understood the depth of Moriarity's deception. Richard Brook hadn't been just a false identity; Moriarity's duplicity had been far deeper and far more complicated than even Sherlock had expected. Richard Brook had been a brainwashed actor with a superficial resemblance to Moriarity that had been 'enhanced' through judicious plastic surgery to provide Moriarity the ultimate alibi and scapegoat... and if Mycroft's liaison was correct, this wasn't the first such scapegoat that Moriarity had sacrificed. 

“Ohhhh, Wis-tar,” Moriarity sing-song voice caught Sherlock's attention, in time for Sherlock to see the American agent flinch in response. 

The American must have whispered some response, but it was too soft or too far away for Sherlock to hear. Digging out the 'kit' the liaison had given him, Sherlock slipped an ear-piece into his left ear and secured the amplifier to the window frame -aimed at a midpoint between where the American agent hung, and where Moriarity was sitting on the edge of a glass topped table, twirling what appeared to be a plastic facsimile of a Beretta between two fingers. 

“You've been doing soooo well on our little maze that I've decided you are ready for a few direct learning techniques. If you do very well on your lessons, I might decide to take you out of the maze entirely and keep you as my own personal pet. That would be nice wouldn't it.”

“Yes, Sir.” The American answered, but Sherlock didn't believe for a second that his response was any more indication of the man's desire for Moriarity's company than it was rote answer to escape the sick torturous gauntlet that Sherlock had witnessed the man being forced to run on more than one occasion. 

“If you're a very, very good little pet, we might even take you on a walkie.” 

Despite being hung by his wrists; degraded by days of torture, near starvation, and cruel treatment; and visibly beyond exhaustion, the American roused to full attention under their gaze, and Sherlock was certain that it was in response to the possibility of earning a chance to escape. From Moriarity's smile, Sherlock was certain that the criminal was well aware of his captive's motivation, but Sherlock had to hope that the man would do what it took to earn the chance as it might be the only opportunity for Sherlock to help the man – before the American extraction team arrived.

It would be a risk, for certain, possibly even endanger the entire operation by causing Moriarity, the real Moriarity, to go to ground, but the American's tenacity, quiet endurance, and shows of intelligence strongly reminded Sherlock of John... and there was no certainty, in Sherlock's mind, at least, that Moriarity's temperament favored waiting for the American team's arrival. Moriarity was fickle in the extreme and a moment's boredom could easily result in the agent's death. 

“Are we pay-i-ng – atten-tttion?” Moriarity sing-songed again, dragging Sherlock's own attention back to the tableau. 

“Yes, Sir.” 

“Very good, Wistar. Let's begin then.” Without further comment, the plastic beretta stopped spinning and swung out. A sharp pop corresponded with a swallowed cry from the American when a riot round struck the precise center of one of the many bruises left on the man's body from being subjected to endless vollies of the riot rounds as he ran the maze. 

Moriarity swung the beretta back and forth as if it wear a conductor's wand leading a silent symphony whose only notes were the agent's sporadic gasps when Moriarity punctuated his gestures with another round. Having watched the sickening spectacle of the man being run through the maze on previous days, Sherlock was almost certain that Moriarity would be reaching a live round soon...

…

Waiting for Gibbs and the woman to pick up their luggage, Trent glanced down at his cellphone screen and smiled as he read the message. 

“What have you got for me?” Gibbs demanded, seeming to have somehow decided the message was pertinent to his concerns. 

Deciding that a show of trust might help him buy a little of the man's good will, he turned the phone to face Gibbs and let the older man read the screen. 

“Who's SH?” 

“Who he is... is a bit complicated.” Trent sighed, realizing that he should have anticipated the question. 

“Uncomplicate it. Is he an informer, CIA, deep cover, what?” Gibbs demanded trying to gauge his sources credibility. 

“As I said, it's complicated.” Trent began, but decided finally – in for a half-pence, in for a pound and explained: “He is the younger brother of the man behind the scenes who runs MI-5, SAS, and a few other acronym bearing agencies within the British government. He is independent of his brother's normal hierarchy, but has been known to work for the crown as... an independent contractor of sorts.”

“Just great.” Gibbs growled, “Can he be bought?”

“No, according to my information, he is independent from his brother precisely because he is unwilling to compromise his principles, such as they are.”

“Such as they are?” Gibbs asked with a frown. 

“Well, as I understand it, my source thinks nothing of breaking into a suspects apartment to get information, but would never stage or falsify information to frame an innocent party.” Kort replied trying to frame the character trait in as positive manner as possible. 

“Ok... hate working with wild cards, but...” Gibbs paused glancing back at the message, “How can we be sure that it's Tony he's talking about?”

“He sent a picture.” Trent offered pointing to the button that would open the image. Hopefully SH had sent the image Trent had requested. 

“Tony ... charah be'leben,” Agent David cursed softly in distress as she looked across Gibbs arm at the phone's small screen. “We must find him.”

“Get me a location!” Gibbs bit out, and shoved the phone back at Trent. 

“Gibbs, it is not as simple as that!” Trent protested, regretting for the thousandth time the need to bring the man into the operation. 

“Make it simple!” Gibbs ordered, but before Trent could say anything else, a dry weary laugh interrupted them from behind. 

“It's been close to ten years since I've heard it, but I would have thought you could learn a new phrase or two by now,” the man's voice continued, seeming to attempt a humor that wasn't quite supported by the his forced tone. 

Turning on his heels to identify their unexpected guest, Trent felt his mouth drop open in surprise as Gibbs announced over his shoulder, “Ziva, I'd like to introduce you to Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.” 

…

Moriarity finally lowered the pistol, with a smile as he approached the American agent, who to Sherlock's shock was still alive, despite Moriarity running through close to four cartridges of rounds.

“And what have we learned?” Moriarity questioned as the man panted to catch his breath between pained gasps. 

“That in addition to being beyond insane, your sadism is also illogical in it's application?” Holmes demanded in a whispered question, “how could he have learned the key from that? He wouldn't have even known what to look for.” As it was, it had taken Sherlock three rounds to even recognize the pattern of shots, and he had already known of it's existence. 

He waited in dread for the American's answer, or Moriarity's response to a lack of one, but his head shot up in shock as the American replied, “A pattern. Not Morse... binary … hits on the bruises for 1, on clear spots for 0?”

“Oh, Wistar, how clever you are.” Moriarity hoped off the table clapping excitedly. “Oh you've got to have a reward for that.” 

To Sherlock's disgust, Moriarity circled around behind the American and began to run his hands over the agent's body in a revoltingly familiar and loathesomely possessive manner that was made all the more disturbing by the agent's passive resignation to Moriarity's touch... showing that it wasn't the first time he had been touched that way. 

When Moriarity settled behind the American, a clearly painful grip on one hip, and the agent's pained gasps increased to cries of misery, Sherlock had to turn away, sliding down to his back against the rooftop as fought to ignore what was happening below him. 

“We don't know enough,” he hissed to himself. “Not yet, it has to be Moriarity! We have to be sure.” 

It was close to a full minute before he remembered to pull the ear piece out of his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MTC...
> 
> Yes, I know that I said Moriarity's suicide doesn't happen in this fic, but as you may notice, it's wasn't Moriarity who killed himself on the rooftop, but Richard Brook. 
> 
> Next chapter, we'll get a look at what's happening 'back home', and just how deep the Director's involvement runs.


	7. But the Air was Full of Sound

The NCIS laboratory, morgue, and bullpen were briefly lit as a power surge from the security system caused the alarms to flicker with a brief 'bleeep' before returning to normal, and letting everyone get back to work... aside from Tim, who chose that moment to pick up one of the cold case files and head toward the elevator.

When the suspicious Director watched his progress in the security feed, however, she was relieved to watch him bypass Abby's lab on the way to the morgue.

If she had realized that Abby was well aware of the additional video feed that the Director had installed, and had already slipped down to the morgue by the longer route that went out the back door of her lab, down to the gun cages and evidence lockers, and past the mail room, she would have been far less satisfied when she turned back to Cynthia. 

“Find out what caused that alarm, won't you?” 

“Certainly Director, I'll get someone from tech on it right now.” 

“Excellent, and when you have a few moments, please try Trent, again.” 

“Yes, Director.” Cynthia offered with a thin smile. 

Turning back to her computer, Cynthia sent a quick sms/text message to Tim's phone, asking that someone from “IT” check for the cause of the error with the alarms. Afterward, feeling the Director's eyes on her, she sent a quick alert not to pick up and began to dial, noticing the soft click on the line when the Director picked up the line to listen in. 

“You have reached the number of TK enterprises,” a cultured British voice began, and Cynthia slowly turned hearing the Director's phone settle softly in the cradle before she was facing the woman. Offering the woman a sympathetic shake of her head, she shrugged and returned her own phone to its cradle. 

'Thank you' the director mouthed through window, and Cynthia answered with a nod. 

_In the Morgue_

“Ducky?!?” Abby questioned excitedly as she nearly missed running into Jimmy as he cleared a work tray for Ducky to set up his personal laptop on. Beside Ducky, Tim had climbed on a chair to reach the overhead socket and plug in the computer into the socket beside the pull down examination lamp. 

“We'll have them up in a moment Abby.” Ducky assured her, smiling as Tim took his place, not quite pushing him out of the way to open their secure browser. 

The connection was barely open before Ziva's face dipped into view, wearing a determined expression that frightened Abby. 

“Ziva?!?” Abby asked worriedly and grew only more worried when Ziva glanced at her and schooled her expression to one that Abby suspected was supposed to be sympathetic. 

“Is he...” She couldn't say the words. She knew what the probabilities were and it had been more than 48 hours since Tony had been attacked and taken, but...

“We have received photographic confirmation...” Ziva trailed off at Abby's sharp gasp to rephrase her answer, “H-he is alive; we have received a photograph... confirming... this.” 

Tony was ALIVE! Abby could have squealed with joy at the pronouncement, but when she turned to share an enthusiastic hug with Tim, his expression wasn't at all what she thought it should be. He still wrapped his arms around her waste though, and pulled her into his side, just in time for Ducky to ask:

“Was the photograph accompanied by a ransom demand?” 

“No, Dr. Mallard,” Ziva answered cocking her head curiously. “I do not see why you would believe so.”

“You didn't say you'd found him, Ziva," Tim answered for Ducky, "just that you had confirmation that he's still alive, and... your expression suggests that …” Abby could almost feel him glance down at the top of her head when he paused as if trying to decide whether she could take it or not. 

“The photograph... is … disturbing, but it was not given to us by his captors. There is an observer, in our side, who was able to take the photograph, we are waiting for further information on his location.”

“On our side,” Jimmy and Tim corrected at the same time, and Ziva's smile suggested that she had known of the error but had attempted to soften the blow. 

“Yeah! The bossman will bring him home soon.” Abby let her enthusiasm resurge a bit, glad for Ziva's soft awkward smile in response, then asked, “Did the boss have anything for us to track down?” 

“Yes, I have sent you the photograph with the information from our source's phone. Gibbs wants you to track down whatever information you can get from it, especially with regard to the call that the photo was sent with. Also, he wishes you to do a full hair to heel background check on two recent suicides from London, Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes.” 

"Head to toe," Abby heard Tim supply in a soft murmur that Ziva either ignored or couldn't hear.

“Does he think they are connected? Does he think their deaths are hinky? They're not going to do that to Tony. The boss won' let them.” 

“We do not know. Gibbs has information that he is not telling me, but I do not believe that he knows of these men, he did not say their names like he was familiar with them.” 

“Ziva,” Tim interrupted her. “You're reaching the three minute mark. If the boss has anything else for us to do wait an seventy minutes and call us back.” 

“Good bye, Tim.” She acknowledged the others with a nod and closed the connection. 

“Abby?” Tim asked kissing her on the top of her head to get her attention, why don't you get back to your lab before the Director's decides to come down and check on us. Wait until after she does to get started on it.”

“Okay, Tim,” Abby agreed easily, glad to have something to do to help.  
…

“Ducky...”

“Yes, Timothy.” Dr. Mallard answered with a gentle smile. 

“Can you take a look at the photo and tell me what you think we might be looking at as far as physical damage is concerned?” Tim asked carefully, throwing up a hand when the Doctor was about to protest. “I know that there may not be a lot that a photo can tell you, but it unsettled Ziva, so I suspect that there will be at least clues. Dr. Pitt was able to recommend some surgeons and therapists who specialize in trauma and catastrophic injuries. I want to make arrangements to get the best choices – given his condition - to London as quickly as possible.” 

“That is very generous of you, young man; I presume that Mr. Gemcity is funding this endeavor?

“Yes.” Tim answered, a warm his cheeks, when Abby looked back at him as she reached the door. 

“Then, of course, I will be happy to assist, and if you will forward the resumes of the Doctors you are considering, I may be able to help you narrow the search.”

“Thanks, Ducky.”

“Anything for family, my boy. Anything for family.”

The doors closed behind Abby, cutting off anything else they might have said.

_The Director's Office_

After scanning the passenger manifests of sixteen flights leaving Washington for London, Jennifer Shepard finally found the passengers she was looking for, and cursed under her breath. On Flight BA229 from Dulles to Heathrow, three passengers, in seats 83, 84, and 85, were traveling under a federal security “ghost ride” marker (with names and descriptions withheld – except on request from Homeland Security/CIA). 

There was a chance that it might not have been Jethro and Ziva, and that their third party wasn't Trent Kort... a slim chance, but the timing was just too close to when all three dropped out of contact... and Jenny hadn't gotten to where she was – as a Director of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, a Federal director, watch-dogging the military- second only to the Secretary of the Navy- in the agency's chain of command -- by failing to cover slim chances. 

“Cynthia, I have finished the position posting for a replacement field agent for the MRCT; could you please take it to HR, immediately, and stress that it is to be an internal listing only. Thank you.” She finished as her assistant took the file folder from her hand with a grim, barely sympathetic expression. 

In truth, Jenny had completed the posting form close to a month earlier, but had been forced to wait for the right opportunity to replace the annoying idiot, who'd had the audacity to think he could replace her in Jethro's life. 

Once the elevator doors closed behind Cynthia, Jennifer picked up the cellphone that had been sitting in her lap for close to an hour and hit the second button on her speed dial. 

Brook answered almost immediately, in a strange sing-song that pricked at her nerves almost immediately, “Jen-nnnneeey, to whAt do I oWe the pleASure?” 

“I was right!” Jenny hissed, “ I told you he was going to ...” 

“Jenny, Jenny, Jenny... Haven't I done as you asked, so far?” Brook taunted her in a tone usually reserved for appeasing spoiled children, “Didn't I take care of that Nasty, Nasty man, who killed your daddy?”

“Yes, I kno--...” she started, before he cut her off, again. 

“And that, egotistical … now what did you call him... an egotistical … what was it?” 

“Man-whore.” She bit out snappishly, disliking his reminder of the debts she already owed him... especially related to DiNozzo.

“Yes, that was it. The man-whore... well, you should be delighted to know that his ego won't be a problem any more.”

“Did you kill him?” She asked, eagerly, hoping that there wouldn't even be a body for Jethro to find when he finally got to London. 

“Oh Jenn-ny,” he teased, “I am shocked and appalled... Completely! Shocked! And Appalled! That you could be so vicious... in love. Are you this ruthless in war, too?” 

He giggled, but after a moment, answered, “No, I haven't killed him, not yet. I wanted to play with him first, just to see how talented he is.”

Shepard winced; she absolutely didn't want to know this. It would have been one thing if he'd just killed DiNozzo, like he was supposed to... like Kort had been supposed to... even La Grenouille hadn't followed through as she'd hoped he would, on the tip she'd arranged to expose DiNozzo. 

Damn it!

Why wouldn't they just do what she wanted and put a bullet between his eyes?

That wasn't the question that slipped out of her mouth though when he chuckled...

“So …” she prompted, more than a little unnerved at her own sick curiosity. 

“Oh, he's absolutely delicious, but I really don't think nearly as experienced as you thought he was, though; he screamed like a virgin the first few times. But, he's learning, and before long, he'll be a proper little whore. I might even hire him out when I get bored of him.” 

“It's too dangerous!” Jenny snapped out. “He'll ...” 

“He'll be on a proper leash; I assure you, and once he tells your little friend Gibbs that he doesn't want to go back, what's your friend to do? Except run home to your sympathetic embrace?” 

“Are you crazy?!? DiNozzo won't say anything like that to...” 

“That's so sad.” Brook sighed dramatically, “I've done everything you've asked, and you show so little faith in me. DiNozzo's dead; you know it, I know it, and he knows it. When your little friend comes calling, my pet is going to make certain he knows it, too.” 

Brooks voice sounded so certain, but he didn't know Gibbs like she did. 

Before Jenny could explain that, Cynthia had returned to her desk and was glancing curiously toward her. 

“I have to go.” She commented before hanging up, and waving Cynthia in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MTC...
> 
> Next up: what and who John knows, and how... Plus, Sherlock gets a surprise, and Tony gets taken on a walk.


	8. It Felt Good to Be Out of the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Gibbs talk about their pasts and significant others; Sherlock gets a few unpleasant surprises; and Moriarty puts Tony on a leash.

Trying to suppress the edginess that he'd always felt, and normally, previously, let himself project when he hit this state of hyper alert-ness on an under cover assignment, Tony forced himself to continue the shower he'd finally been allowed to take – ignoring his captor's continued attempts to catch him off guard to see if he'd respond to his real name. 

This wasn't the first time that he'd had to hide all responses to his real name on a case, but it had been the first time that he had known from the first that the bad guys knew who he was, and that - it seemed - had made the difference when drugs, exhaustion, and trauma had weakened his resistance, earlier. 

His reward of a full night's sleep after the subsequent harsh lesson had given him what he needed, though, to submerge himself into his deep-cover/whatever-it-takes-to-survive mindset. Since that night, he'd spent every down moment – not focusing on clinging to who and what might be waiting for him at home – but instead on recalling every lesson and rule he'd learned under Jethor, and the dozen other strategies that he'd picked up on dozens of under cover assignments to create the mask that would give him the best chance of survival. 

Under the circumstances, that was “Wistar,” a unthinkingly obedient test subject; intelligent but silent unless suffering; modest and inhibited, but submissive to the man's appetites; and ever-watchful for the clues to what the next lesson would bring and what the next trap might be. 

“It's time to eat, Tony!” James chimed out again behind him, but Tony continued to ignore him despite the roiling of hunger low in his stomach. Wetting the bar of soap again, he worked up a thick lather and ran it over his face, again, feeling more of the paint dissolve under the repeated washing. 

“Come eat, DiNozzo, aren't you hungry?' 

Tony stayed silent, not even glancing in the man's direction as he tipped his head back into the water. He knew the man was watching him for even the slightest response to his name, and refused to give him a justification for more punishment. As it was, Tony had already mistaken the purpling on his legs for undissolved paint until his scrubbing proved them to be lingering bruises. 

“Wistar,” the man called softly from behind him, and Tony spun to face him, asking “Sir?”

“It's time to eat, Pet.” James's smile was disturbingly smug, but Tony did his best to ignore it, as he followed the man's gesture to the glass topped table, where a full breakfast had been set up. 

“Thank you, Sir.” Tony offered tentatively, hoping that it wasn't laying it on too thick, but sensing that the man was still waiting for something … that there was another trap there he was waiting for Tony to fall into.

Sausages, eggs, two slices of toast, a slice of bacon, a small dish with preserves and butter slices, juice, cream, a sugar dish, coffee... he knew there was something there... stirring spoon, fork, butter knife ... then he saw the catch. Picking up the slice of toast, he completely ignored the butter knife and dipped the tip of the toast into the preserve as neatly as he could, cupping his hand under the toast as he brought it to his mouth and took as small bite. Setting it down, he made a point of moving to the sausages, then the bacon, then the toast, then the juice, pointedly ignoring the eggs and coffee – focusing on only what he could acceptably eat with his fingers. Laboratory rats didn't use silverware, of course, and he suspected that James would have called him on it if he had tried. 

“Oh, very good... very good,” the man praised with a delighted giggle as he draped himself over Tony's shoulder to reach for the spoon. Scooping up a bit of the egg, he fed it to Tony, who obediently opened and closed his mouth around it, trying to ignore where James' free hand was roving. 

ブレンキン

“Come on in,” Captain Watson gestured into the room ahead of them, taking Ziva's bag from her to set it on the kitchen table as they passed. 

The man was somewhat smaller than average height, with sandy blonde hair, plain, unremarkable – if somewhat depressed- features, a slight limp that he seemed unaccustomed to, as if it was a recent injury, but otherwise, he seemed rather unremarkable. Ziva was well aware of the danger in that presumption, especially considering that the man was someone that Gibbs had called for assistance. 

As he had noted, Agent Gibbs seemed to despise working with 'wild cards', civilians, and 'green'/untrained field agents, often pushing them off on Ziva and McGee, unless Tony was especially hyperactive and needed to be kept busy. The unexpected reminder of Gibbs second-in-command brought the photograph that Kort had received back to her mind. Although Tony was frequently an annoyance to her, McGee, and nearly everyone in the office, she would not have wished this form or level of field 'experience' on irrepressible man.

Her father often referred to such abuse as seasoning, but Ziva had yet to come to terms with the requirements that her loyalties sometimes forced her to. A quick, clean kill: she could accept that and believed that some people truly deserved to die. Her conscience was easily assuaged in most of those operations. A hard fight, that caused grievous, severe injury, she could accept that as well; it was the cost of picking up a weapon against her. She would not sacrifice her life needlessly, but this... torture where it was unlikely that the victim would have secrets of note; such needless brutality benefited no one and only lowered those whom committed it to the level of animals. 

“Tea, Officer David?” the captain asked from beside the kitchen sink where he was filling a plug in coffee pitcher with a tin measuring cup. 

“Yes, thank you.” Ziva agreed returning her attention to the man, who was leaning somewhat heavily on the counter as he bent to pull an enameled tea pot from a lower cabinet. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted that Gibbs was watching the man with concern, perhaps wondering if he'd been mistaken to call. 

“John...” Gibbs began softly, “I - I'm sorry. I read about what happened to your- friend, and … I saw your blog.” 

Captain Watson stiffened for a second, but when he turned to face them, his expression was calm and hospitable. 

“Yes, well...” He paused to clear his throat when his voice cracked slightly and continued, “well, you can understand, I expect why I'll appreciate the distraction.” 

“Not sure it will be much of a distraction,” Gibbs replied grimly, but Captain Watson shook his head. 

“Maybe it's more accurate to say that I'd appreciate the chance to cause some destruction, break some windows, blow up a building, maybe shoot someone.” Watson said bluntly with the sort of calm equanimity that Ziva recognized as having been acquired from years of having done exactly that. Captain Watson, it appeared, despite his common place appearance, attire, and homely flat, had 'experience'. 

“About that...” Gibbs began but cut off when the tea pot whistled, and Captain Watson turned to pour out a coffee for Gibbs, and teas for her and himself. 

When Gibbs didn't continue his comment, she took it as a sign that the Captain was one of those men who did not like to discuss 'business' over dinner or drinks, but preferred to preserve the social ritual as a reminder of some semblance of civilized behavior, when they were often called to do 'uncivilized' acts. Her father was one of these men as well, so Ziva was familiar with the nature of question that it was acceptably to ask without causing offense. 

“Have you known Agent Gibbs long Captain Watson?” she asked. It was a fairly safe question allowing a yes or no answer, a general reference to a number of years, or leaving an opening for stories if the recipient was so inclined. 

Captain Watson glanced at Agent Gibbs with raised eyebrows, clearly asking for permission before revealing something. Gibbs answered with a quick nod, but held the Captain's gaze for a minute in a way that Ziva was sure was an order to hold something back. The captain responded with a shrug, “Yes, since Operation Desert Storm. Gunnery Sergeant Gibbs and I were assigned to a...” 

He paused glancing again at Gibbs, who filled in, “strike team.” 

“Well, officially, it was a joint UN 'peace-keeping'...” 

“Yeah, well 'officially' you were Fifth North Umberlands ...” Gibbs responded with a snort. 

“That's the Royal Fifth NorthUmberlands Fusilers, to you mate.” Captain Watson responded in the tone of acknowledging a well-worn joke. 

“I do not understand,” Ziva interrupted, she had heard of the unit before but... “That unit no longer exists and has not since the eighties?” She wasn't entirely certain of the date, but was hardly expecting the error to cause the captain to spit his tea out, causing Gibbs to chuckle. 

When it seemed that Captain Watson could not recover his composure to explain, Gibbs stepped in, “Some minor bureaucrat in the British government thought that using expired unit id's for their black ops agents was a sound practice, not realizing that if there was a unit well-known enough to be recognized as a legitimate military unit, it might be recognized enough for someone to know that it had been expired. John was only 'officially' assigned to the unit to provide a background id, but was transferred to various infiltration and assault teams as appropriate. I was a military buff for a couple of years before I joined the marines, and the first time I met him and he gave me his rank and designation, I told him it was bullshit.”

“Gibbs...” Captain Watson interrupted with a glance toward her. 

“Mossad. Liaison to NCIS.” Gibbs answered back, and it seemed to be enough to answer whatever question the captain would have asked. 

“Damn, don't take this wrong, Agent David, but you're too young and ...” He broke off with a laugh when she raised her eyebrow warningly, until he continued, “... smart to be thrown into that kind of action. Might be a good idea to look into another career while you're still young enough to enjoy it.”

“So speaks the voice of experience.” Ziva answered, perhaps too sharply, she realized when Gibbs glared at her. 

“It's harder than you realize, David, to find yourself out of the field, denied your alternate career by ... injury, and alone thanks to your years wearing masks over masks so that no one can know you, identify you, and get revenge. Even if something good comes along – if someone good comes along, you've been caught up in your masks for so long that you can't take advantage of it ...can't let that person get to know you before it's too late. It isn't a career to grow old in, young lady.” 

The captain fell silent, staring into his tea cup for several seconds, while Ziva glanced helplessly at Gibbs trying to figure out how to apologize for the landmine she had unexpectedly triggered. To her surprise, though, Gibbs didn't look as angry as she'd expected. Instead, his expression was almost relieved. Catching her eye, he nodded toward the door, and ordered, “Go see what Kort's up to.”

Rising carefully, Ziva paused to reach out, wondering if the gesture would be seen as patronizing or not, and briefly rested his hand on the man's shoulder. He didn't look up, but covered her hand and nodded. 

ブレンキン

. . . 

_TK_  
Where Are You?  
SH 

… 

_SH_  
You'd never believe.  
TK 

…

_TK_  
What are you on about?  
SH 

…

_SH_  
221 Baker  
TK 

…

_What?!?_

…

_SH_  
You didn't sign your text.  
TK 

...

Trent couldn't help himself, with that comment, Holmes had harassed him for the first fifty or sixty texts they had sent to always sign his texts, so the man really did have it coming. 

…

__  
EXPLAIN!!!  
SH 

…

_Lead agent knows JW_  
mentioned calling in marker.  
TK 

…

_KEEP JW OUT OF IT!  
SH _

…

_Don't know if I can.  
TK_

…

_Don't be an idiot! Keep JW out.  
SH _

…  
 _Or else?  
TK _

…  
…  
…

Trent smiled at the screen as Holmes failed to respond, knowing that the man was just as trapped by the situation as he was, and finding it oddly satisfying. 

“Why does your contact not wish us to involve Captain Watson?” Ziva asked curiously, and Trent spun in surprise cursing under his breath as he did. 

“That's...” 

“Is Captain Watson untrustworthy?” she pressed, and Trent was tempted to just knock her out to shut her up, but that would blow things with Gibbs, and damn it, he needed Gibbs help. His higher ups in both the CIA and MI-5 were pissed with him and blocking him out. If he didn't work this out right, he would literally be a man without a country. 

“No, but it's complicated,” he answered refusing her with a raised hand. “If it comes to it and the Captain's going to be mixed up in this, Holmes will just have to deal with it.” 

Ziva's eyes narrowed then widened in a way that worried Kort. 

…


	9. In the desert you can remember your name

“John... Tell me about him.” Gibbs encouraged, wanting to get a feel for what John knew before he dropped what he was sure was going to be a bombshell.

“God, you couldn't start off with an easy question could you? ... I don't know what to tell you about him. He's not like anyone else that I've ever met. Sherlock's brilliant and reckless, and gets... could get himself in the worst sort of fixes all in the name of catching whatever crook or criminal the yard pointed him at. He told me once that he wasn't a hero, and maybe he wasn't...There were times that I didn't even think he was human; he played such a deep game. But let me tell you this, when he wasn't acting, when he wasn't hiding behind one of his masks - he was the best man, the most human.... human being that I have ever known. Don't believe any of that shite they're printing about him; I was there for most of it, and no one will ever convince me that he was lying. He could lie at a change in the wind; don't get me wrong, and he was good at it. Good enough that he could have been one of us, but he wouldn't have lied about this, and he would never have hurt anyone who wasn't hurting someone else. I may have accused him of being cold … of being a mach-ine... but he was one with a heart, a klunky awkward heart, that didn't tell him when something he was about to say just plain off... and he was maddening. He didn't seem to know how us normal humans act, but he was brilliant... truly brilliant at the same time... God, how he shined...He was... he was …”

John's face dropped into his hands, and Gibbs was certain that his news was about to turn things very, very ugly.

“Were you two... together?”

“No, I'm not the same person you knew back then,” John sighed, “Please understand, when we first got together, I thought I understood how devastated you were over the loss of your wife and child, and I hoped I could help. I knew... I understood we weren't anything serious, and that once the mission was over, we'd go our separate ways, and I was okay with that. Then you let your stupid self-destructive streak get in the way, and ended up a six-month coma, and the rest of our unit finished the job and were reassigned. I thought I understood, so I never let anyone else get involved because I didn't want what happened to you to happen to me... I thought I understood, but God, I was wrong.” …

“How did you survive this? It's killing me, and we were never even together. How the hell did you survive this? That's what I want to understand. I've thought about 'cleaning my gun' more than a dozen times, today alone. How did you survive this?”

“I'm not sure I will, if it happens again.” Gibbs answered honestly, turning the laptop around and pushing it in front of his friend, the director's shots of him and Tony together scrolling across the screen (he'd set the gallery as the screen saver)... “Tony's been my Sherlock. More than a dozen years, I didn't let anyone get behind the lines. Married a couple of times, but I didn't let anyone get close enough to me to worry about losing them. Always kept them separate. There was them, and there was the work, and the work always won out. Then there was Tony. He snuck in under the radar, at work, got close – at work- without me even knowing it. Annoyed the hell out of me, never quite made me regret offering him the job but came close a couple of times (when he got hurt or got caught up in some kind of trouble he couldn't handle), and then a couple of months ago, after I got my head knocked around by another bomb, I ran off, afraid of everything I couldn't remember. Thought that was it, everything was done and over. I was ready to turn into a hermit He followed me, and let me know what was waiting for me if I could get my head back on straight.”

John glanced up from the screen, “You really love him don't you? I've never heard you talk that much in a single breath... about anyone, and before you say anything – I know it hurt too much to talk about Shannon and Kelly. I get that now. I did then, too, but not like this. God... Okay, enough of this, I can fall apart and hide under the bed after we get Tony back. Fill me in, what are we up against.”

For the first time in more than a decade, Gibbs hesitated, but finally, he stood, came around the table, and shifted the touch pad to “wake” the screen, then looked away from the photo that Kort had emailed... the photo showing Tony hanging from a hook in the middle of a warehouse, being studied by nondescript man with a receding hairline that the tabloids had identified as being the late Richard Brook, who by all accounts had killed himself six days earlier, despite the fact that the photo's time stamp said that it was taken only twelve hours ago.

“No, it can't be... it can't be. He's dead. They found his body on the roof of St. Barts. He killed himself just before... the cameras show he killed himself.”

“Kort says he pays doubles to get plastic surgery then grabs them and programs them to think and do whatever he want's them to do... in this case, blow their brains out.”

“Go-D,” John's voice broke as tears streamed down his face, “Sherlock … killed himself because of this bastard... thinking it was over, that we were safe... and Moriarty's alive. The bastard's still alive.”

“John... is there any chance... When Tony was taken, they blew up the car he was in and had planted his id and belongings on whoever was in the car, but he's alive... is there any chance that Sherlock could ...”

“No,” John interrupted, scrubbing tears out of his eyes. “No, I was on the street below when... when he jumped... I spoke to him on the phone. I saw him. It was him... and I saw his body. It was him.”

Breaking his silence, Gibbs offered, “Kort says he can get us our choice of weapon, what's your preference? I'm going with the M40 A1... I remember you used to use an L96.”

“I won't need it.” John murmured as he got up from the kitchen table and opened a cabinet door, reaching for the second shelf.

“John...” Gibbs growled warningly, if John thought he was going to just let him walk into …

“I won't need it because I still have my L115...” he explained pulling himself up to stand on the kitchen counter beneath the cabinet so he could reach on top of the cabinet and pull the rifle down.

“You keep it on top of the kitchen cabinet?” Gibbs asked with surprise.

“If I'd kept it in my closet or under my bed, Sherlock would have found it for sure, the man is... was the worst snoop, broke my computer password at least twice a week, but he never did do the grocery shopping and would never have thought about dusting.” John's tone settled to a tone of fond humor as he met Gibbs eyes with determination.

They stared at the screen in grim silence, for several seconds, before John finally broke it, “We'll get Tony out, but once we're done with that I get the bastard... Moriarty's mine.”

“I know.” Gibbs answered quietly. He'd known from the moment that John had begun talking about Sherlock that Moriarty's fate was sealed. It had been the same with Shannon and would have been the same if Tony had died.


	10. 'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain

Sherlock laid against the roof, listening, but largely trying to tune out Moriarty's obscene grunts and the American's pained pants, until the man began speaking again...

“You've been such a good boy, My Pet. You deserve another reward, so if you'll hold still while I put your leash on, we can go for a walk.” 

“Yes, Sir.” The American replied in a trembling voice. 

Despite his usual opinion of law enforcement officers and detectives, Sherlock had to admit that the American had impressed him... not only in managing to survive the tests that Moriarty had begun to incorporate into his maze, after the American had amazingly managed to detect the code from Moriarty’s game of target practice, using him as the target... but also by the fact that the American had clearly put his mind to the task of discerning the most productive behavior pattern to use with Moriarty's – a task that had tripped Sherlock himself up at first. He truly couldn't say whether he would have done as well if he'd been put under the additional stresses being subject to Moriarty's rapacious appetites. 

When it came to the American, Moriarty couldn't seem to restrain himself and had forced himself on the American multiple times that morning alone, barely even waiting until the agent had finished eating before bending him over the table and assaulting him. The reminder of that morning's treatment made Sherlock shudder. It was getting harder and harder to stand by, waiting for Mycroft to confirm that this was Moriarty – a fact that Sherlock had quickly become convinced of - from the depth of the man's depraved abuse of his hostage. If this man wasn't Moriarty's – Sherlock suspected he was even worse, or could be if he worked his way into Moriarty's pool of political connections. 

“Mmmm... Oh... you're sooo good; I almost hate to pull out.” Moriarty sighed, “but then, I wouldn't be able to put this in.” 

The agent groaned softly, causing Sherlock to ease the small mirror up enough that he could see Moriarty's leaning heavily into the American as he rifled through a drawer in the side of the table before pulling out a small blue object.

“Aren't you curious what it is, pet?”

“A plug... for my...” 

“Well, yes... yes, it is that, but that's not all it is... it's quite a nice little leash, too.” 

Sherlock grimaced at the thought, easily grasping how an anal plug could interfere with the agent's ability to run at full speed, especially if he was correct in his estimation of the size –which must have been fairly large for him to even see it from this distance... but if Moriarty thought that would be enough to stop the agent, Sherlock suspected he was in for an unpleasant surprise. 

“Here, let me get it in...” Moriarty's voice broke off followed by a rustle of sound, a gasp, and then Moriarty ordering, “That's it... Take it. Take it. I know it's big, but it had to be a little on the chunky side to fit the all that c-4...” Moriarty broke off with a laugh and a short violent shuffling, “Ah, ah, ah... not a good idea to fight... It's almost all the way inside, anyway, and you wouldn't want to take the chance of triggering it, now would you? Good boy, that's it Pet. Just a little bit deeper. There now, it's all the way in.”

The American's groaning had turned to whimpers, but whether from pain or fear, Sherlock couldn't say. 

“Now, let me show you how it works.” Moriarty's voice continued, with amusement. After a moment, Sherlock heard the sounds coming from what he thought was the table's embedded dvd player, and Moriarty began to narrate, “See this is how they're made...I wrap the c-4 around the remote receiver module – look at how small it is. miniaturization these days is an absolute marvel; it's small size let me put close to 150 grams of C-4 around the trigger before I even slipped it in. I added more, of course, to hold it in place so you don't have to worry about jiggling it around. You'll want to thank me for that later. Now watch closely, I know you're smart enough to want to see the evidence of what one of these does, instead of just relying on my word for it... Here it is in a safe.” 

Sherlock barely picked up the small burst of sound over the American's startled yelp. 

“Not very much left of the safe, I know... but wait there's more, once it's armed...” A small beep carried to Sherlock's amplifier as Moriarty continued, “like yours is now, you can't take it out without disarming it, which by the way, uses a different code than the one I've taught you. Something I forgot to mention to this young man... now watch what happens when he tries to take it out...” 

The American cried out in horror at whatever he was seeing, his cry covering over whatever other sounds Sherlock might have heard.

“Yes, that rather did make more of a mess than I expected but that's why I thought I should show you how it works before you make a mistake... as long as you don't try to slip the leash, you'll be just fine. Any questions?” 

“Y-es, Ss-ir,” the American's wavered, “how...how is it.. triggered?” 

“A very good question, Wistar, one I'll let you to figure out. I'll give you a clue, however: think about how we measure speed, hmm?”

“Distance, rate, and time?” The American questioned meekly. 

“Exactly. Now, I've left you some clothes on your bed, go get ready, and then I'll take you on your walkie.” 

“Don't...” Sherlock whispered the warning to himself and to the American, despite the fact that the man couldn't possibly hear him. 

Thankfully, the man had come to the same conclusion, questioning, “Sir... the distance... is the … my bed too far... far enough away from you to trigger...it?”

“Well, yes, it may just be at that, but if you'll come here and do something nice for me, I might just be willing to come over and watch you dress.”

Glancing into the mirror, Sherlock was disgusted to see that Moriarty's had returned to the chair that he seemed to prefer to sit in while watching the American being abused.

He had sat down and leaned back casually, still unzipped. 

“Yes, Sir.” The American replied and blocked Sherlock's view of the criminal as he moved into place. 

Rolling back against the roof, he just barely prevented himself from slamming his head against it in frustration. Their chances of getting the American out alive, just decreased geometrically. 

Digging out his phone, he sent a rapid text: 

_TK_  
Where Are You?  
SH 

… 

_SH_  
You'd never believe.  
TK 


	11. After two days, in the desert sun

“John... Tell me about him.” Gibbs pressed softly as John climbed down from the counter and carefully laid the well-maintained L115 across the kitchen table.

“I can't talk about Sherlock, any more, not right now.” John refused looking away, though Gibbs had already spotted the glisten of moisture on his lashes.

“Not Sherlock, John... Brooks.” Gibbs corrected.

“Moriarity, you mean. The man's so far beyond evil, the devil probably shudders when they cross paths. He's unstable and is... or was completely obsessed with Sherlock. He seemed to see Sherlock as some sort of opponent in a game of wits... and happily killed a score of people in pursuit of his game. He's perversely methodical and possessed of a sick brilliance almost equal to Sherlock's. He's an utter psychopath and probably the second most dangerous man I've ever met.”

“Who's the first?”

“Sherlock's Brother, Mycroft. He's practically the head under the crown, behind the scenes, from what Sherlock said. A genius who runs a bunch of our agencies and shadier non-existent programs from his secretary's blackberry.”

“If that's the case...” Gibbs hesitated as he saw John's eyes flare at his unfinished question.

“Why did he let Sherlock sacrifice himself?” John asked harshly, cutting him off.

He didn't even wait for Gibbs nod, as he closed his fingers around the stock of his rifle and answered, “That's not a question I've let myself ask. If I had to guess, though, I'd say that – despite his claims that he worried constantly about his brother – God, King, and Country came first. I'm not even sure that Sherlock was a distant fourth.” He paused looking down at his, now, tight grip on the gun and visibly forced himself to let go.

Sighing after a moment, John looked up and commented, “Look... I'll get you Sherlock's notes, and you can read them for yourself. If anyone had a bead on the bastard, it was Sherlock.”

John stalked out of the room, simmering hatred radiating in his wake. Remembering all too well the feeling, Gibbs paused for a moment to consider his old friend... and himself. He knew without question how easy it would be for John to turn the anger and pain he was feeling, on himself, on the brother, possibly even on anyone else he'd begun to blame rightly or wrongly for his partner's death. They had both had dark sides, even before Shannon and Sherlock's death.

Innocents and upstanding men didn't just stumble into black ops careers. Not even the average soldier or sailor despite their experiences in battle were cut out for it. It took a certain willingness to ignore the sanctity of life to do his job and a vicious ruthlessness to do it well. True he'd regretted some of the kills he'd made, especially the one's he'd known from the outset were nothing more than collateral damage, but it had never stopped him from doing his job... and he knew that it had never stopped John from doing it either, although John's specialty had differed slightly from his own.

They had both been snipers and not infrequently paired for extraction of critical targets, but after the targets were extracted, before they were killed, John would use his surgical skills, masks of an unassuming personality, and aura of compassion to extract the required information from their targets. After they first met, it had taken some time for Gibbs to reconcile John's innate compassion and mild manner with his willingness to torture and kill their targets until John had explained that he viewed his activities similar to excising cancers and that if he did his job carefully and well, he could even save their target's the pain and suffering they might have received at another interrogator's hands.

Needless to say, John had always done his job well, though not always getting the information they'd needed, either from their target's ignorance or innocence, and over time, Gibbs had even polished a few of his own skills from watching John at work, learning to read a target's readiness to talk and how to best use silence to unbalance them.

“Here.” The files were slapped down on the kitchen table beside him, but John didn't slow on his way towards the door, grabbing his jacket on the way out as he threw back over his shoulder, “I'm choking for a pint. When you're finished and and ready to plan, you've got my number.”

Gibbs nodded understanding, were their situations reversed, he didn't think that he could have sat idly by letting someone read Tony's case notes, possibly critiquing a man the other person had never met based on what he was reading. Anyway, if he was going to be of any use, John needed to take the edge off and had always been able to drink Gibbs under the table without blinking.

As the door slammed shut behind his friend, the memory of a song that John had taught him once came to his mind, and the words slipped easily from his lips as he picked up the first of the late detective's files.

Oh mama, oh mama comfort me  
For I know these awful things have got to be  
But when the war for freedom has been won  
I promise you I'll put away my gun.

A shot rang out, I heard a soldier cry  
"Oh please don't leave me here alone to die"  
I realized his patrol had run away  
And left their wounded comrade for me to slay.

Oh mama, oh mama comfort me  
For I know these awful things have got to be  
But when the war for freedom has been won  
I promise you I'll put away my gun.

"There's nothing in this world I would not do  
If there's mercy in your heart you'll let me live"  
And in his eyes I saw a look of pain  
As the muzzle of my gun moved towards his brain.

Oh mama, oh mama comfort me  
For I know these awful things have got to be

Within minutes of starting to read, Gibbs understood John's description of his late friend; the man who had compiled the file was clearly brilliant and shared Tony's sometimes erratic sense of intuition, minus the frequent cinematic references, or perhaps with them, but better disguised. There were several times that Gibbs didn't track how the detective had come to the conclusions he had, but was familiar enough with Tony's similar thinking style to trust the conjectures, which painted a clear if daunting picture of their enemy, his resources, and his methods. When he got to Sherlock's notes about their mutual friend being used as a hostage, decoy, and booby trap, his heart clenched briefly in belated sympathy and anger for his friend and fear for Tony. He had promised that John would have Moriarity when they were finished... but it didn't entirely preclude him causing the psychopath some pain before deferring to his friend.

In fact, as he continued to read, causing the man a measure of pain seemed to be the most likely way to get Moriarity's attention enough to keep the man engaged and interested enough that he would be. less likely to discard Tony out of hand, if there might be some use to keeping his hostage on hand. While Gibbs didn't downplay his own intelligence, he easily recognized that he was not on the same level that Sherlock or Moriarity had been, and knew that if their extraction plan fell through, they would need something in place to keep Moriarity from going completely to ground and taking Tony with him.

Gibbs couldn't compete in terms of intelligence, but in terms of cold, calculated viciousness? He stood a chance, especially after reading Sherlock's profile of the criminal.

Moriarity commonly engaged serial killers and employed mercenaries: in other words, targets who were fair game if Gibbs took the battle to Moriarity instead of waiting for the psycho to bring the fight to him.

As if some plan of fate were waiting for his decision, the moment Gibbs closed the last manilla folder, his personal phone buzzed and a simpering sing-song voice chanted:

“Gee”  
“I”  
“Double bb.”

“There's something I have”  
“You'll want to see!”

“Hello Brooks.” Gibbs responded dryly, fighting to keep any trace of anger out of his voice. “Or whatever the name of this week's puppet is.”

There was silence on the line for a second, and Gibbs could tell that he had caught the man off guard. Not with the knowledge that Moriarity was hiding behind proxies, but with his lack of reaction to the taunt.

“What passes for common courtesy would indicate that it's your turn to respond.” Gibbs offered, hoping to unsettle the man even further, “Unless you'd like to pass.”

“No, no, I'm happy to carry my load of the conversation, thank you for the offer, though.” The sing-song voice continued causing the sentence to peak and break oddly as the man spoke.

“Certainly, I believe that you were intimating that you have some property I'm interested in seeing?”

“Inti – mat – ing,” Moriarity's strung the word out, causing Gibbs to grind his teeth silently at the words he knew would be coming as he lifted the receiver away from his mouth so that the crud wouldn't hear his reaction. “What an interesting choice of words, and so very appropriate. ”

“Yes, I'm sure.” Gibbs agreed as if he hadn't assumed anything otherwise, and from the moment he'd seen the mole's photo, he'd known that what Moriarity was implying had been a very likely possibility from how close Moriarity had appeared to be standing, and his posture, which had seemed to have the man almost rubbing himself against Tony. “It's a matter of personal pride, you realize; I rarely indulge in personal entertainments, but when I do... the entertainment is... worth the time I spend in it's company.”  


Hating the way he was forced to talk about Tony as though the greatest part of his soul was nothing more than a pass time that he indulged himself, Gibbs turned the lap top back around to watch the screen-saver play image after image across the monitor, tracing his finger over his lover's image to calm his nerves and remind himself of what he hoped to gain by winning the loathsome game.

“Yes. Yes. Of course, I understand completely, and agree. I commend you on your taste in entertainments, Tony has been such exquisite company, so supple and yielding, so responsive. He still has a few bad habits but whimpers so prettily that he's easily forgiven.”

Gibbs' teeth felt ready to crack under the force of his grinding as he fought to retain his temper. It was a struggle he was a hairsbreadth from losing when Ziva rushed through the kitchen door and pushed Kort's phone into close into his field of vision. Chilled by the last text he read there, Gibbs forced am note of cool amusement into his tone to reply, “yes, I've always thought so.”

“Surely you must miss his company,” Moriarty sounded both piqued and intrigued by his lack of response, “and would like to meet to retrieve him.”

“Yes, I did come to London to retrieve my property, but I'm in the mood for a diversion. Tell me, Brooks have you ever played horseshoes?”

“No” Moriarity laughed, sounding startled, “Tell me how is it played.”

“Well, the rules are fairly simple. There're only three of them to remember: two targets/three throws, each player takes a turn, and the closest to the target wins. Lets call nipping Tony out from under my nose, your first throw, shall we? That would make it my turn.”

“Ooohoo, THIS sounds like my kind of game!” Moriarity laughed.

“Good, then call me again, tomorrow at six, so we can keep score. “ Gibbs hung up abruptly, severing the conversation before he could lose it.

Dropping his face into his hands, he cursed virulently as Ziva shifted back and forth, waiting for orders or explanations. Instead of answering her unspoken questions, though, he tried to type in his own text message, before getting frustrated, and shoving the phone back into her hands.

“Tell him to get me a target. Not Moriarity, the next-closest to him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that John had taught Gibbs was a song from the Irish Rebel's song, named the Sniper's Promise.


	12. My skin began to turn red...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarity's in a good mood after his talk with Gibbs and wants to play with his pet.

Sliding the face of the small disposable mobile phone shut, James stared at it thoughtfully, a small thin smile growing on his lips as he heard the high thin whimpering from the pet kneeling beside him. 

“Naughty, naughty, Wistar; you shouldn't have listened in to Daddy's phone call. Now Daddy can't take you on your walkies, and you were doing so well, too. That's what happens though, privileges have to be earned and can be taken away just as easily as they are given.” 

His pet shivered under his stroking hand, but James suspected, from the slight return of his pet's color, that Wistar was relieved not to see his former partner, and if Shepard was correct, boyfriend. James was beginning to seriously doubt that that she had been correct, however.

First, from Wistar's continuing traumatized reactions, James was nearly 99% certain that the former federal agent had been a virgin, at least with respect to intercourse with another man. 

Second, Gibbs was not acting as James would expect a lover to act. The man hadn't even inquired after the condition of his missing man, neither asking to hear his voice as proof that he still lived, nor asking about ransom terms, nor even bandying idle threats about the consequences of touching his subordinate again.

In fact, Gibbs had hardly even seemed overly interested in bargaining for the man's life - not even demonstrating a trace of jealousy or effrontery at the suggestion that James had so readily enjoyed his pet's services, which James was certain Gibbs would have expressed if he had ever sampled Wistar's delights. 

Instead, Gibbs had challenged James to a game, noting the sting to his pride of having “his” man nipped right out from under his nose as James' first salvo in the game.

James had to admit that he liked the man's style. 

Instead of lecturing about honor and regaining face like some bleeding yakuza birk, droning on about tradition and the fortitude it takes to get through a Siberian winters like some cossack-wannabe, or alternately posturing like some Italian peacock with his mind stuck in the old world modality of feudalistic family-ties (and his pecker stuck in almost anything that moved)... Gibbs had actually had the style to not only let James know that the other man was coming after him, but the gamesmanship to make his little vendetta interesting. 

No, none of it fit Shepard's description of the man, and James spared a second to wonder if she had knowingly set him against Gibbs, who was virtually unknown in the circles that James traveled, but ... who presented himself as more than comfortable with the potential. He quickly dismissed the thought, however, Gibbs might have panache, but Shepard?

She had neither the style nor intellect to come up with such a devious though. If anything, it was more than likely that she had simply been blind to Gibbs activities, and James was sure there had been activities in some form or other. One did not simply possess the sense of style that Gibbs had so far displayed, without using it... and from within the very heart of a federal 'law enforcement' agency was a delightfully devious place from which to work.

James was actually quite looking forward to meeting the man and discovering how he had kept himself from drawing James's notice, despite his thorough investigation into Dear Jenny's past. ... Perhaps he should even let her live afterward... as a finder's fee of sorts. It was a thought. Perhaps, if Gibbs proved as entertaining as he had so far...

Gibbs' choice of game was promising and strikingly fitting (three strikes each, close to but not necessarily hitting the target, suggesting that Gibbs had a reasonable understanding and appreciation of the demands of James' other business operations and that he had selected a challenge that could easily be managed without disrupting his day-to-day activities) to the confidence he'd shown in setting their upcoming appointment, even though he'd hardly been in the country six hours, barely enough to develop a confident enough lay of the land to claim that he would be ready to take his 'first throw' and have it counted by 6 pm the next day. 

Smiling indulgently down on his pet, who was looking decidedly more relaxed now, undoubtedly thinking that he was going to get out of seeing... or more to the point, being seen by his former partner... James thought with amusement how much he'd enjoy his pet's reaction when he discovered they would still be meeting the next afternoon. 

It was a tidbit of information James decided he might let wait until the next morning, electing to enjoy both Wistar's ignorant relief, and leave enough time before their meeting to stretch out and savor Wistar's anxiety about meeting with the man... perhaps even amplify it. 

Sliding the phone lid back up, he sent three quick text messages to one of his onsite servants, requesting his meal, a few supplies, and authorizing a purchase, in the servant's name of course, from a local adult toys' supplier the man frequented. 

“Come, pet, that doesn't mean that we won't do something, just that we won't be getting out, so you won't be needing your pretty clothes.”

“Yes, Master.” Wistar rose gracefully, before beginning to undress when it was clear that James had no intention of moving.

“Slowly, pet, make it sensual.” James ordered, smiling with amusement as his pet shuddered, certain once again that the man had been a virgin to other men. 

His pet could barely even stand to be looked at, especially beneath James's intimate gaze, seeming to take the semi-public exposure to James' servants akin to locker room indecency, embarrassing, but mostly ignored.

Wistar's fumbling attempts, though clumsy, were distracting enough that James was content to wait while his servants brought in his meal with a small side plate for his pet. Snapping his fingers, he called Wistar to kneel and smiled indulgently at how quick his pet was to obey. 

Just a little more training, and he was certain that he would be able to take his pet out in public; though, he was certain it would be a while before he would trust Wistar without the leash. Still, all in all, Wistar had adapted quite quickly, and perhaps, his pet did deserve a small reward. 

Maybe a bit of jewelry... or a new collar or chain... something to help Wistar remember his place when James let him go out without his leash... the three concepts blended into a truly delicious thought, and James grinned as he tapped Wistar's chin. 

When Wistar obediently opened his mouth, James pushed his pet's bottom lip to widen the gap and poured the au jus into his pet's mouth, ordering Wistar to hold it just there and absolutely not to swallow until he was told. Satisfied that Wistar understood, James sat back and toyed with the different possibilities of his treat for his pet, occasionally dipping his a piece of the tender beef or yorkshire pudding into the savory au jus.

The possibilities were just so entrancing that James barely noticed finishing his lunch until his fork came back empty, and he'd eyed the plate with an amused chuckle. At least, he'd been aware enough to at the first to savor the repast before becoming entranced with the equally delicious thoughts of everything that he would like to do to his pet's body. 

Even though he'd finished, James was pleased to see that Wistar had not prematurely swallowed the remaining au jus, but was patiently waiting for his orders. Picking up a small slice of the tender beef, James pinched it between two fingers and slipped it into his pet's mouth. 

“Here we are, pet. Have a taste.” 

Wistar obediently closed his lips around James' fingers when he didn't release the piece of beef, and after a moment began to suck on the slice. Eventually, James released the bit of beef and sighed with false remorse. He'd planned to hold the bit of meat long enough that Wistar couldn't suck on the piece of meat that long without swallowing the au jus. 

“Such a shame. This just won't do; we'll have to hold off on the rest of your meal until cook can draw another cup of au jus.” 

His pets were much more servile and attentive, James found, when he kept them hungry and hopeful that they would receive a bit of food, if they'd just behave up to his standards. 

Wistar's disappointment was almost palpable, but James pushed it aside without a qualm. If Wistar was entertaining and performed well in the little game being set up for him, he'd earn the rest of his meal, if not then it would be an object lesson to do better the next time. 

A soft cough from the video room announced that game was ready, and James caught Wistar's hair to lead him into the room. 

“While you were undressing, pet, I've had the boys hard at work setting up a little game for our entertainment.” 

Wistar froze for a second, not answering, but a tug on his hair brought him back into line, with a hurried, “Thank you, Sir.” 

It wasn't as enthusiastic as James might have liked, but his earlier phone call had left him in a very good mood, and his later plans for playing with his pet were still humming through the back of his thoughts, so he decided not to punish his pet for now. 

Instead, he waived to the video table, the only visible change to its earlier set-up was that the chain and hook on the roller track had been pulled to a position directly over the table and a shiny new choke collar was hanging from its hook. 

“Tell me, pet,” James began, mimicking Gibb's earlier question, “Have you ever played 'Hangman'?”

Wistar let of a startled whimper, but before he could fight, James gestured and his servants were there dragging the man over to the video table and securing his ankles to the table before forcing his hands up to grip the edge, but not locking them down – as James explained gleefully, “There are just three rules: move your hands or guess a wrong letter, and you lose a turn” (James flicked the remote as he spoke retract the chain a bit to demonstrate and smiled Wistar's wide stare before he continued); “any time you guess a letter right, you get a little reward – of my choice- of course; and any word you get right, we're going to do.” 

When Wistar tried to pull away from the choke chain being dropped around his neck, James stage whispered, “Don't worry, pet. Just to make things easier, I've taken a lot of the possible words off the board, even though they're some of my favorites: like mutilation and disfiguration... You've been such a good boy that I've decided to only use the sexual ones.”

As he spoke, the monitor came to life and ---------------------- … 22 slashes filled the screen.


	13. After Three Days in the Desert Fun

"McGee, you have the number I asked you for?" Gibbs bit out pushing his temper down. 

For the past half-hour he'd been reviewing the short clip, sent by Holmes, of Moriarty playing his version of 'pin the tail' on the donkey with Tony, and if he didn't act soon, there was a very real chance that he would lose the edge his anger gave him as his rage threatened to slip from his control.

Making matters worse, as he waited for John to return from the pub, was the knowledge that he was going to have to be the one to break the news to his friend that the man he had been grieving over to the point of considering suicide was alive and had been actively maintaining the ruse in order to protect John: a fact that would only make matters worse, when it was compounded with the fact that John had withheld his true military background from Sherlock and might have been kept in the loop if Sherlock had known.

He knew that Sherlock, himself, had been torn about risking the possibility of being spotted by Moriarty, in his attempt to grab Moriarty's second in command, a sniper by the name of Sebastian Moran, fearing that if he were spotted, it would turn the man's attention back to John, and had only complied after Gibbs vaguely sketched out his plan. While it didn't help his planning, Gibbs did appreciate the humanity implied by that small bit of apprehension. From the comments that John had made, and the ruse he'd been running on John, it could have gone either way.

Despite his misgivings, though, when Sherlock offered himself up as a second hostage for Moriarty, Gibbs hadn't hesitated to agree; quickly recognizing that Moriarty would not be able to so easily contemplate having someone else take the victory that he'd thought to have over Sherlock. How they were going to explain it to John was an entirely different matter though. Pushing that thought aside, he wrote down the number McGee gave him, and ordered him to keep working on the other numbers that he'd tracked from the number to stations in Austria, Berne, Saudi Arabia, Beijing, and Brazil. It would be a push, but unless Moriarty caught wind of it, everything would be in place for the planned meeting time.

Between calls, Gibbs grimaced at the seventh text message he'd fielded from Holmes in as many minutes, all to the same end, "If you want my cooperation, KEEP JW OUT OF THIS!!!! SH."

As much as he appreciated the man's sentiment, his answer wasn't going to change. He knew John, what he was and wasn't capable of how he worked, how his mind worked, and how his heart worked. He knew what to anticipate from John, with regard to Moriarty. Holmes, though, regardless of whose brother Holmes was and whose lover Holmes was, Holmes was an unpredictable wildcard: similar enough to Tony that he would have banked on the man in any other event, but not to stack the deck when it was Tony's life at stake.

Punching the call option at the bottom of the text, Gibbs waited until Holmes began to question whether he was an idiot to risk everything by ringing the phone of a contact whom might be close enough to be heard by the suspect if… and cut the man off, "John's non-negotiable, you're not. You want in, I have a use for you. You don't, stay the fuck out of the way. John says you're smart, so I'm sure that you don't need me to tell you what will happen to you if you do anything that ends up with my agent being hurt. "

"Your lover you mean." Holmes retorted sharply, as if the information was a weapon he could wield against Gibbs.

Maybe, Holmes wasn't as bright as John thought; then again, without knowledge of his and John's shared past, there really wasn't any way for Holmes to guage the man he was challenging. Keeping that thought in mind, Gibbs allowed himself a dry, unfelt smile as he answered:

"Yes... if nothing else, that should give you an idea of how serious I am about what I will do to you if you do _anything_ that results in Tony being injured. Ask yourself whether there is anything you wouldn't do to protect John, on whether there is any harm you would not visit on someone who injured him? And then magnify that feeling to accommodate the fact that - unlike yourself and John - Tony and I were willing to risk our lives and careers to be together... for a clue to how serious I am. I can and will do this without you; but John has the skills and experience that I need and is one of the three people I would trust to have my back."

"And while he has _'your back'_ " Holmes asked snidely, "Just who will be watching his?"

"Your choice." Gibbs answered bluntly, not above exploiting the man's interest in John, if it would help him get Tony back. "You can either trust me and my team to have his back, or agree to follow my orders and be there when everything goes down. You have ten seconds to decide, and I have more phone calls to make, so either join up or hang up and let me get back to work."

From the short run of shocked silence that followed his answer, Gibbs suspected that no one may have ever spoken to Holmes in that manner before, which was just as well as far as he was concerned. Agents and operatives were much easier to control when they didn't have pre-conceived notions.

"Fine," Holmes answered abruptly, before throwing in, "but don't tell John that I'm still…"

"No deal. John won't be left out of the loop on anything. Wouldn't work if he were. Those are my terms; take them or leave them."

"You don't understand," Holmes retorted, "This isn't Moriarty's only operation, neither John nor your partner will be safe if Moriarty's not taken down completely, and I need to remain dead for that to happen…"

"What do you think my other calls are about? We're bringing them all down tonight, and if he's taken alive, he'll be cooling his heels in Guantanamo indefinitely. Now, wait for my call, then grab Moran and get him back here asap."

"But your agent…" Holmes protested, drawing one of Gibbs' first genuine smiles at the small show of concern for Tony.

"Moriarty is going to be bringing Tony to us, if only to have the opportunity to boast about his success in grabbing Tony right out from under my nose. Anyway, it's safer for Tony if we can get Moriarty out on open ground instead of somewhere he's bunkered down and fortified. Now hang up and wait for the call, Damn it. I have other arrangements to make."

ブレンキン

Snapping his cellphone shut with a silent curse for the intransigent American, Sherlock stepped back to the decrepit office's window, put his shoulder to the inside frame as he crouched, and using the frame to balance a small extension mirror - slid the mirror out the window to check whether there were any of Moriarty's men visible from the next building over or the alley below. 

Once he had confirmed that his route was, for the moment, clear, Sherlock carefully climbed out of the third floor window and gripped the upper inside frame as he stood and positioned the tips of his trainers on the thin ornamental ledge that ran from window to window and around all sides of the brick building.

Although Moriarty had carefully ruined most of the surreptitious routes into the building (electrifying the the fire escape from the second floor on, jimmying away both the office's and warehouse's drain pipes from twenty feet up, barring the windows on the first, second, third, and fourth floors, etc.), it had not taken Sherlock extensive study or time to identify four remaining approaches: two obvious traps (well one obvious and one only obvious if you held a moderate grasp Moriarity's tendencies - by which to say Mycroft would have stumbled into it as blindly as Lestrade, or worse, Anderson), Moriarity's own escape route subtly unguarded - but no doubt booby-trapped, and the indirect route to the unguarded-roof that Sherlock was now taking.

Having dismantled the easily accessible section of the drain pipe and barred the windows on the side between the warehous he was in and the abandoned office building that Sherlock had just climbed out of, Moriarty had failed to consider that there might be someone motivated enough to risk edging along a ledge of ornamental brickwork - only inches wide- for close to twenty feet (on this side of the building, and another fifteen once he clambered around the corner) while leaving himself completely indefensible to shots from below as he clung to the wall, then clambered up the remaining length of drain pipe up to the office building's roof, and cross another length of pipe, dangling from the pipe as he pulled himself across it, hand over hand.

Admittedly, it had probably been a safe assumption on Moriarty's part, but one Sherlock was certain he would never have made, if he were aware that Sherlock had survived his ruse. Still it was a time consuming trip, and he would not have admitted it, Sherlock felt an uncommon concern for the American agent.

He had already been torn between his earlier decision to leave the American un-observed and un-protected even to the limited extent that Sherlock could have protected him by causing some distraction for Moriarty to give the agent ... relief in some small amount if it seemed critical (as the distraction would have undoubtedly been an one-time event) - and his failed attempt to persuade/browbeat the man's partner and lover into pursuing his plan without John's involvement.

His concern proved justified as he edged far enough into the skylights just edge that he could inspect the warehouse below without casting a shadow. Moriarty was crouched over the nude American, who laid un-moving, seemingly unresponsive on the warehouse floor, even as one of Moriarty's henchmen appeared to be suturing the agent's genitals to abdomen and nodding a confirmation in response to Moriarty's order to keep the stitches "deep, tight, and close".

The man beneath them did not twitch or otherwise respond, even once, through the entire ordeal, and from the unsatisfied sigh that Moriarty gave when his employee finished his work and tied it off, Sherlock could tell that the agent had denied him the expressions of pain, anguish, and terror that the Moriarty seemed to crave, as well... and that - moreover - it had not been an act to bide his time and dissuade Moriarty from torturing him further.

Moriarty's last-bid effort to work a response from the agent was an order to the henchman to begin again, this time running sutures from the prone man's perineum to his slit, with broad "crisscross" stitches with width of his shaft to be "pulled tight and tied off at every half inch". It went without saying that the result would make any form of stimulation more agonizing as the skin was pulled taut.

As if to bring that point home to the still unresponsive man, when the henchman had finished, Moriarty followed up with a command to 'milk him dry'.

When the act was finished, though Sherlock could only discern its completion by the henchman removing his hand from the American's groin and moving to stand with an apprehensive gaze to his employer - Moriarty flung himself back into his seat and stared at the unresponsive agent for several long minutes before he finally waved his hand with a dismissing gesture. The only certainty that Sherlock that the man continued to breath was Moriarty's evident disappointment at not winning a reaction from the man and the order he gave his men a moment later:

"Boys have your fun…" Moriarity called out to his hidden guards and snipers, "but, don't kill him. He may have lost most of his entertainment value, but I'm curious how our new friend will react to his pet's state."

Sickened by the hurried clatter of eager footsteps down the metal ladders and gangways, Sherlock threw himself away from the skylight, refusing to watch the further defilement of the agent's body. While the piggish grunts and groans of Moriarty's men still carried to the window, he ignored them as he stared at his phone trying to decide his next course of action.

Would it be more detrimental to tell Gibbs, who was in the midst of attempting to destabilize factions of Moriarty's network - seemingly with Mycroft's assistance - given Kort's involvement … that his partner and lover had broken under Moriarty's attention? Or would it be better to let him make his arrangements for the other cells to be wrecked to any extent possible and leave him to face the fact in the midst of a confrontation when he would need his wits to deal with Moriarty's machinations even if it meant he might make a fatal mistake but could serve to undermine Moriarty's operations.

His decision wavered for about half-a-second before he drug out his phone, opened it with a silent curse, and quickly punched in a number he had hoped not to need. He was still re-thinking his decision two seconds later, when the dial-tone gave away to a familiar voice. It wasn't too late to snap it shut, but having committed to the call Sherlock threw logic and caution to the wind:

"John…"


	14. And the Story it Told of a River that Flowed

John's breath froze in his chest as he stared at the phone in his hand, his friends name almost falling unbidden from his lips before Sherlock's words caught up with him and he snapped his mouth tightly shut around the curses and questions threatening to overflow.

"Don't say my name!" Sherlock had warned him almost instantly.

"You bloody Wanker!" John hissed into his cellphone. "You'd best be glad that I've more 'n a pint, else you'd be sporting shiners to your wake."

"John, if I had given you any clue that I had survived, much less what we were planning to do with the opportunity my supposed death allowed, I have no doubt but that you would have thrown yourself right into the thick of it. For the noblest reasons of course, but I could not risk … I was not willing to … Moriarity is not just a street thug you could overpower or a dying cabbie whom you could speed the end of with a well placed shot. Moriarity had snipers targeting, you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, but especially you. Do you know what I saw when I looked down from the roof of St. Barts, as we spoke? Do you?"

Sherlock's tone as he repeated the question, whether he was aware of it or not, reflected some of the fear and desperation that John could sense he must have felt before his seeming suicide… and John felt his anger wane in a flush of resignation tinged with guilt. If Sherlock had known about John's skills and background, would he have been so ready to perpetuate the farce?

"What?" he asked softly, understanding that Sherlock needed to get the answer out. 

"A laser-targeting point on the bricks behind you. If I hadn't jumped… John, I had to."

"If you hadn't jumped… You truly jumped? It wasn't a body thrown over?" That was only way John could reckon it had been done. 

"It wouldn't have worked if there were. The sniper, remember? He was positioned where he could target you and certainly see me. The only options I could were either to take the risk that you could move behind a sufficient shield if I warned you or jumping. There was no way of knowing if he was the only sniper, what caliber of rounds he was using, or the sufficiency of the shield you chose. I didn't have a choice." 

"You bloody well did." John protested wondering how Sherlock's fabulous mind had failed him in that instant - letting him believe that taking such a risk was warranted, simply to protect John. "And, how did you survive it anyways? That couldn't have been your body on ... How did you?"

"We don't have time to really discuss this."

"We bloody-well do. Sherlock, I have to know..."

"I told you not to say my name! If someone hears you." 

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock!" John hissed angrily.

"Why do you persist in..." Apparently deciding to forestall the insult that John could almost feel down the line, Sherlock sighed a thick- frustration laden sigh. 

After a moment, though, he did finally answer, "The canopy... St. Bart's canopy. I don't know if it was the gift of a forward-thinking bureaucrat or a safety feature put in place by a harassed administrator in case one of the loons broke from the mental ward, but the canopy below was made to break falls without breaking bones. It still blasted hurt, but it stopped my descent sufficiently that I only need roll off the edge and land properly. Chance favored the event further by allowing one of Moriarity's recently deceased victims to be delivered for Molly's attentions at that moment. In an astounding- even to me- show of unprecedentedly quick thinking on her part, and no doubt against her better judgement, Molly spared several pieces of the deceased's skin and bones to provide a realistic image and before other onlookers could see what had happened, and declared me dead. Onlookers appeared to be sufficiently horrified to ignore the slight evidence of my breathing and with three broken ribs, a wrenched shoulder, and a dislocated knee, my pallor suited the farce." 

Somehow, despite his shock, at the realization that his eyes hadn't deceived him that day, John managed to pick up the key detail that Sherlock had left out of his altogether too-brief summary. 

"Did you know about the canopy?"

"John, we don't have time..."

"Did. You. Know. Before. You. Jumped?"

John suspected he knew the answer already (if Sherlock had known, he would have undoubtedly credited his brilliance for allowing him to come up with such a ready and effective farce instead of trying to avoid the question), but he still needed to hear the answer... needed to know if Sherlock had jumped anticipating his own death... to save John. 

His question was met with an uncomfortable silence, which was really answer enough for John, even though he pushed, "You didn't, did you?" ... his voice going unaccountably soft as he did. 

"No." Sherlock finally answered, his dry choked whisper carrying more emotion than John had ever guessed that he possessed. 

"Okay," John offered, before letting him off the hook, "There has to be a reason for you to call me right now. What is it?"

"The American, Gibbs, what type of man is he?"

"Why?" John questioned fearing the worst.

"The agent he is attempting to retrieve, while still alive, appears to be in a near catatonic state. How will Gibbs react?"

"Shite, it won't be good. He's alive?" 

"As of my last observation, yes. I believe Moriarty... Moriarty's alive by the way... Moriarty wishes to see Gibbs reaction to his agent's state." 

Now that his shock was dissipating, John could more easily hear the subdued-edginess and dark notes in Sherlock's tone. He couldn't help but wonder what shape Sherlock was in. His friend had out and out admitted to having been pretty seriously injured in the 'fall' and -more to the point- had never been one to take even adequate care of himself. If Mycroft had let Sherlock run rampant in the name of taking the kingdom's worst enemy down, there was no telling how underfed, sleep-deprived, and unfit his friend might be. 

Speaking of Mycroft, though, John asked the other question they needed to take into consideration, "Is there any chance that Mycroft will try to interfere?" 

"No, my Dear Brother, has given his approval for the extraction on my assurance that we have located the true Moriarty. We have." 

"That's good news. We might have had a problem, otherwise. If DiNozzo's still ... recoverable, Jethro will probably be content with destroying his network, and letting us make the final decision - if our mutual enemy survives their meeting. If DiNozzo doesn't make it, Mycroft could install him to the throne, to pay whatever ransom was being asked, and Gibbs would still take the head-shot without blinking or worrying about the consequences."

"How do you know this man, exactly?" Sherlock challenged, and he might be fooling himself, but John thought he heard a trace of jealousy, but dismissed the thought as Sherlock continued, "And which 'skills and experience" was he referring - refusing to distance you from this..."

"Sherlock," John interrupted as he reached the flat's steps. " I promise I will tell you everything when this is over, but I can't get into it, right now. I'll break the news."

"John, wait!" Sherlock demanded, "You haven't answered my question: how will he react? Can he be trusted to ..." 

"Yes. Sherlock, Jethro Gibbs - of all people- can be trusted with this. Don't worry. He's a professional." John paused momentarily before giving into the slightly vindictive impulse to leave Sherlock with a parting shot, "We both are," and snapping the phone shut. 

His hand had barely closed around the handrail when a dry, malice-filled voice stopped him in his tracks.

"I knew it. Jim is going to be thrilled to hear that his favorite playmate isn't as far out of reach as he thought." 

It wasn't a voice he recognized, but when he turned, the man's features were ones he remembered quite well from Sherlock's case files: John was staring into the chill, soulless gaze of Sebastian Moran.


	15. Made Me Sad to Think it Was Dead

"Moran," John responded coolly. 

"Dr. Watson, I wasn't aware that Holmes knew of me. Rather a shame that," Moran's tone sounded superficially regretful, but his gaze told another story entirely. One that John had ample experience reading both from his involvement in Sherlock's investigations and his previous 'career' - such as it was. Moran only too happy to have a justification to threaten and cause him permanent if not fatal injury. 

"Jim had only wanted me to check in on you and confirm if 'Sherlock's little pet is missing his master much,' his words not mine, then leave you until my next check in. You weren't even meant to see me. Now, though, I think we should step in and have a bit of a chat, don't you?" 

Gesturing toward the door with a hand tucked in a jacket pocket - that was undoubtedly meant to imply the presence of a gun - Moran joined him on the steps - menace glowing in his eyes as he searched John's gaze and expression - quite obviously searching for some trace of fear... a trace John was certain wouldn't be found. 

Just down the street, he noticed David and Kort breaking from their positions, where they had been guarding the flat - in the guise of a bird and her bloke on a pub walk. It had been a long shot chance that one of Moriarty's men had managed a trace on Jethro's phone, but neither he nor Jethro had managed to stay alive without taking long-shots into account. 

The pun appealed to him but he suppressed the slight smirk that rose at the thought that he and Jethro were rather experts in making long shots. 

When Moran turned to follow his gaze, Agent David was leaning a bit drunkenly on Kort, who was doing a very good job of seeming to be the enthusiastic boyfriend, enough that Moran only glanced at them momentarily before turning back to him and threatening, "Oh yes, if you try to stall or fight me, I will be certain to draw them into this." 

Behind him, still shamming, Ziva had pulled her phone out and was undoubtedly warning Jethro of the impending visitor, so John forced a complacent nod with a fake plea to "Leave them out of it." 

"Inside, then." 

ブレンキン

Just before John's hand closed on the doorknob, he felt the knob twist once, widdershins, before turning properly under his hand. As the door jerked open, to reveal Jethro already bringing the stock of John's L115 down in a sharp arc, John spun catching Moran on the shoulder and pushing the shocked man forward into the rifle's stock. Moran was inside, the door closed, and Ziva and Kort back to their posts before anyone on the street even seemed to raise an eyebrow. 

Well perhaps that wasn't quite true. A number of their neighbors along Baker Street had raised an eyebrow, but more in the sense of relatives fondly watching young boy's tussle. They were used to such things from 221 B. and it had been almost disturbingly quiet of late. 

"John," Jethro began, once they had Moran secured, "I have news." 

Jethro's tentative expression was enough to cue John in, so he cut his friend off before Jethro felt compelled to deal with the task of trying to soften the blow of Sherlock's deception: "Sherlock's alive, I know. He called me, with an ... update he didn't want to deliver over the phone." Before Jethro could more than pale in reaction, John hurried to explain, "He's still alive, but had to check-out to cope." 

Although it didn't bode well for DiNozzo's mental state when they did recover him, they were both familiar enough with captive situations to recognize that it wasn't a hopeless cause; not that it would have stopped Jethro if it had been. Nevertheless, the falling of Jethro's stony mask reminded John far too much of the final days of their last joint mission - after the death of his wife and daughter sent Jethro into the tailspin that ended with Jethro getting caught in the blast radius of a mine while trying to take out a well-entrenched snipers nest that there would have been little hope of him actually reaching - not that the fact would have stopped Jethro. 

It was one of the many reasons that John and the rest of the strike team had done what they could to protect and deflect from their suddenly reckless Gunny. Each and every man knew that while Jethro had stopped caring about his own survival, the risks he took were not driven by a desire to suicide, but his willingness to risk himself to protect them -consequences be damned. John had wondered though and knew he wasn't the only one who had, if the frequency of those risks hadn't been indicative of his friend's despair. As much as John had been certain of his friend, when he had assured Sherlock that Jethro would be professional, he knew he would have to be on guard for that recklessness if DiNozzo wasn't recoverable. 

A sharp jerk of a nod and the order to 'get Holmes back here now' was the only response his friend gave, but it prompted John to action; much like Sherlock, if you wanted to keep an eye on Jethro Gibbs, the only way to do so was to jump into the thick of the action with him. 

It took less than two minutes to text Sherlock and convince him to return, thanks in a large part to a mention of Moran and John's refusal to stand down. By the time the text argument was finished, Jethro was closing his phone with an expression of revulsion. 

"It's set. St. Bart's rooftop at six to 'tally up'."

A hollow churning turned the pit of John's stomach. 

"That your idea or his?" John asked after swallowing dryly. 

Jethro's unapologetic expression told John all he needed to know. 

It was a tactic his friend had used successfully in the past: taking advantage of a target's arrogance and perception of safety on home turf by taking the battle to the location of the target's last win. 

Two calls later, and Agents Kort, David, and a McGee were given their assignments before Jethro turned back to John - his gaze speculative and questioning, without doubt about to ask something of John he would hate. 


	16. After Nine Days I let the Horse Run Free

It was icy and dark, by the time Ziva, Gibbs, and their captives stepped (or were drug, respectively) out of the stairwell and onto the roof of St. Barts. Despite the fact that Gibbs was well aware that their enemy would be laying in wait for them, he had waited until Dr. Watson, the last to report in, had replaced his target - the sniper on the rooftop overlooking the east side of St. Barts and facing the entrance they were about to step out of - before Gibbs had signaled for her to step out. 

The ever-present London Fog provided some camouflage for their entrance, but Ziva was certain that La Moriar would be waiting for them, with his snipers strategically stationed to take herself and Gibbs out of the equation at the man's whim. They were counting on Moriar's defenses being in place, in fact, and being unexpectedly vulnerable in their focus on his defense and the reasonable anticipation that an American agent without known British contacts would have no time or ability to set up an ambush within less than a day of arriving. 

Gibbs and Mr. Holmes had paid a surprising amount detail, in fact, into how their opponent's perceptions could be used in their favor - down to the evening attire she and Gibbs were wearing: attire fitting for any ambassadorial function, as if the meeting with Moriar was little more than a brief errand on the way to something more important than the end of a game one-ups-menship they had alluded to it being. Far from the casual or even business attire that La Moriar should have expected of them, Gibbs was outfitted in a sleek charcoal Henry Pooled glen checked dinner jacket, over a soft-grey double-breasted waistcoat, and eggshell blue poplin evening shirt...the suit, tie, matching shoes, cuff links, belt, and accouterments all borrowed, unworn, straight from Holmes's closet - close enough in size due to their owner's similar height and fitness, although Ziva suspected that Gibbs wore the suit better, thanks to his marine-crafted physique. 

Her attire had been marginally more difficult to obtain... but only marginally... as Kort had taken a single, long, appraising, and subtly appreciative glance, seeming to take her every measure in the glance, and dialed a friend who owed him ... a great deal apparently... as within twenty minutes the friend, a flirtatious red-head (who flirted with Ziva as much as Kort) was dropping off a J. Mendel original, draped silk gown with wrist length sleeves decorated in small blue-black pearls, and a floor length slit that would allow her ample freedom of movement if needed, attractively-paired black stilettos, and and a chain-strapped clutch purse. 

Going for as much of a distraction and detail, subtle and obvious alike, Gibbs had fashioned almost-decorative chain leashes for their 'captives' by pulling the free ends of the polycord leashes that lashed their captives' wrists to the back of his their necks- through lengths of stainless steel utility chain, which Holmes supplied with an unexplained blush) before twisting the cord into slip knot collar around their throats, each of which appeared and was very easily tightened with a pull of the cord instead of the chain. Coupled with the sedative that Dr. Watson injected Moran with before they put him on the leash - the man was effectively hobbled and stumbled forward each time Ziva jerked his leash. The second leashed man, following in her wake, appeared equally hobbled by the cord, but had not required the sedative (nor the slipknot) to induce cooperation. 

Dragging them forward with enough of a pull to make Moran choke slightly, a sound that the other man picked up and mimicked on the next tug forward, Ziva sauntered behind Gibbs moving only slightly to the side to be visible... until Gibbs slashed his hand in a prearranged signal. Dropping the men to their knees with short, sharp kick at the back of their legs, Ziva glanced up to see their enemy stepping out of the shadows. 

"GIbbs, Gibbs, Gibbs, did you bring me presents?" the obviously disturbed man asked in a querulous tone that made Ziva wish to break his trachea to improve. "And just when I was getting bored with our mutual friend." 

"Of a sort," Gibbs agreed coldly not giving any sign that he was even glancing around for Tony, though she knew he must have been searching for their teammate with every flicker of light, "but, it remains to be seen, whom they will go home with... To the winner, goes the spoils after all." 

In a sickening mimicry of a demented child, La Moriar actually bounced on his toes and cooed, "Oh, I knew this would be fun. Let me see them. You have to let me see them." His voice became childishly demanding even as his eyes focused on their captives' clothing and sharpened. 

"Actually, I don't see that I do. I have my ante, but I don't see you offering anything up to be won. I trust you have brought my property, and something to sweeten the pot with when I win." 

"Now, now, I would have thought him sweet enough, but if you'd like, yes, I can sweeten the pot so to speak. Presuming, of course you win." 

"Given that you started this game without notice, I do feel justified in asking again," Gibbs answered, coolly, "where exactly is my property?" 

"I am truly tempted to take offense that you would impugn my integrity, I truly, truly am, but you do have a point," Moriarty answered with a smug grin, his voice rippling with unwarranted humor then continued, "And In the spirit of fair play, I guess I can over look it. Never fear, our little pet is right here." 

As he spoke, Moriarty held out a remote and punched the top button activating, by the sound of it, the window washer's pully system. It was only when the window washer's basket had fully reached the top that they saw why its tarpaulin covering had hung so low. 

Tony was strung like a marionette, each limb dangling from a strand of climbing rope hooked to open-ended spring snaps loosely strung over the bar running down the center of the basket. Although he appeared unconscious, almost lifeless, it was obvious that any move he made could cause one or more snaps to unhook and send him plummeting. 

Ziva couldn't imagine how Gibbs was managing to keep his cool, especially when Moriarty held up the remote and pushed a button just below and to the right of the first button he'd pushed... causing the winch on the right side of the basket to growl as it started up. 

"Then again, maybe I won't overlook it." Moriarty chimed, "I have such a fickle nature. It troubles me sometimes. It truly does." 

As the basket's right end slowly lifted, they could hear the spring snaps screech as they slid down the bar. 

How Gibbs managed not to lose his temper or control, Ziva would never know, as her hands trembled with her desire to strangle the psychopath, but somehow his voice sounded more frosty and detached, as he countered, "Then you have something to replace him with, something equally interesting to play for? If not, I hardly see any reason to continue. Ziver..." 

"Oh, I do, I do. I have your lives..." Moriar rebutted; with his statement, one after another, laser scope dots glowed and swarmed over Gibbs charcoal wool evening, and Ziva quickly counted...six, seven, eight.... nine. Damn it. They'd missed one of the snipers. 

"I'm sure you find them interesting... at least, I would hope so." Moriar teased, smiling until Gibb's answer brought a confused frown to his face: "John, four o'clock, angle point too zero, range ait zero zero... send it." 

Moriar's eyes widened in understanding in the same millisecond as the report of a long-range rifle rang out and the ninth dot red dot disappeared in a sudden jerky flight into the sky. 

"Well done. But that was only one of my m ..." he trailed off with a short cut off gasp of surprise as the other eight red dots trailed down Gibbs to run across the roof in an almost coordinated cluster that rose Moriar's legs and abdomen to center quickly on his chest. 

"Oh my, that is impressive... and it does change matters quite a bit. I suppose I'll have to keep our little pet in the game after all." As he spoke, Moriar triggered the remote again evening the window washer's basket, and lifting it until it reached the top of the arch and tilted forward enough that Tony would most likely fall toward the inside of the roof's edge instead of the outside of the building... but not close enough that it would be a certainty. 

"And to sweeten the pot?" Gibbs demanded implacably, hardly even seeming to notice Tony's position. 

"Well, it would have been your lives, but since you've spoiled that little bit, I guess we'll have to negotiate that. What did you have in mind?" 

"A call to our mutual friend, in Washington." 

"Oh Goody," Moriar actually looked excited, "What a perfect idea ... bringing Jenny in on the game... She's been pestering me to know what's going on after all." His voice had returned to that grating sing-song, Ziva thoroughly wished they had decided to go with Kort's plan to put a bullet through the vile man's eyes. After a moment, though, he shammed a sad tone, claiming, "It's such a shame, though; I've seen how much you don't like others getting involved... without warning." He finished glancing significantly down at the dots still bouncing on his chest. 

"It seems to me, she got herself involved, before she had you drag me into it... That's enough warning for me." 

"Why that does sound fair." Moriar agreed, showing no concern for his seeming partner as he continued "Does that mean I get to see your ante?" 

"I suppose..." Gibbs flicked his fingers toward Moran first. "But I should let you know that the first counts as my first throw." Ziver." 

Ziva was only too happy to pull the hood off the sniper's head when Moriar's eyes widened in shock and shot back to Gibbs, who only raised an eyebrow. 

"Turnabout's fair play and you took my property without my permission; so it seemed only fitting for me to take yours." 

"Very good." Moriar agreed with a pout that in a moment became a mercurial grin as he turned his gaze to the other captive demanding, "And the second, you have to let me see, the second." His eyes were fixed on the stained Belstaff coat, the long smudged fingers, and tension-ridden slump of their second captive. 

"I don't think so." Gibbs held up a hand, smirking coldly. "It's your throw." 


	17. 'Cause the desert had turned to sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly Moriarty and my muse seem to be engaged in a competitive game of horseshoes with my head as the scoring post. Here's hoping that getting this mini chap out will help exorcise a bit of their mischief.

John ground his teeth as he watched Sherlock, Jethro, and Miss David through the scope.

As much as he realized that he had to stay out of Moriarty's sight to pull off one of the more delicate aspects of the operations - namely ensuring that Moriarty believed Sherlock was dead by the end of the confrontation - or at least long enough for Mycroft to get what he wanted out of the psychopath.

But that didn't make it any easier to keep his post watching the roof of St. Bart's from the sniper's nest Moriarty's henchman had been huddled until John had slid up behind him and expressed a bit of his frustration - in connecting the butt of his L115 into the back of the assassin's skull. If there had been any other choice in the matter, John would have been on the St. Bart's roof with them.

But, due to the urgency of getting the drop on Moriarty's snipers (and the time spent getting Sherlock tech'd up to pull off their little ruse), John hadn't even had the chance to properly rant, slug, then snog the life out of his own personal Lazarus, and he resented that fact. Or rather, he strongly resented the root cause for that fact, and deeply, deeply longed to put a bullet right between Moriarity's eyes. 

The only problem was that even now, despite Sherlock's certainty, they didn't have indisputable proof that this was the true and original 'Moriarty', instead of one of his brainwashed minions/victims. And Mycroft, damn him, would settle for nothing less than 'inarguable fact'. The pompous git. 

Grimacing at the silent mental countdown running in the back of his thoughts, John breathed a sigh of relief as Moriarity finally 'took his turn'. If he had taken much longer one of the key preparations to their ruse would kick in leaving no doubt what game was being played. Nevertheless, when Moriarty began fiddling with something on his cell phone before turning it back to face Jethro - foolishly taunting one of the most dangerous men that John had the pleasure of once working with - John couldn't stifle a groan at the man's stupidity.

"Did you know Jenny told me the saddest story?"Moriarty simpered, "About you being estranged from your father for so many years? I thought I should do something about that and give you a chance to speak with him...." As Moriarty continued, his voice sounded as slimy and sycophantic through the earpiece as John remembered it sounding in person, "before... I take my shot."

John only wished he could shift his scope up to see Moriarty's expression when instead of being shaken by the image, Jethro just smiled and nodded to the phone, answering, "Hi Dad, how are you doing?"

His father's response didn't carry over the earpiece, but from the way that Moriarty whipped the cellphone back to face him and growled an almost unintelligible threat at the man that Jackson Gibbs had knocked out (with a can of tomatoes) even before the security detachment that Jethro sent to protect him had arrived - it was obviously not what the sleazy supposed criminal mastermind had expected, much less Jethro's answer to his father.

"Sorry for the inconvenience, Dad, but we'll make a trip up when we get back."

Moriarty's rage at Jethro's win was almost immediately translated into a sudden drop of the window washer's basket until Jethro shook his finger at Moriarity and Jethro's soft "Ah, ah, ah," carried over the earpieces.

"Unsportsman-like behavior. Ziver..."

Despite himself and his absolute dedication to Sherlock, John couldn't help admiring the dangerously beautiful Israeli agent as she glided from Jethro's side to stand behind Moran, where he knelt, and produced a knife that looked positively lethal through the scope from a well-hidden sheath. 

Despite knowing full well what was going on, as she pulled the blade swiftly across his throat just above the collar cutting- John hoped - the scarily-thin layer of fake-skin covering carefully-placed blood packets, the sound that came out of John's throat almost mirrored Moriarty'. Even through the scope, it appeared frighteningly real and the man's sudden slump in response only added to the authenticity. As dedicated as Moran claimed to be, when Sherlock reminded the man of Moriarty's likely follow-up to discovering that Moran had been caught or compromised - he ultimately gave in and took the same sedative they'd given Sherlock.

Timed to knock him out roughly five minutes before Sherlock, the sedative had depressed Moran's breathing and heart rate enough to give a cursory but authentic appearance of death. Even knowing this, John silently prayed that they get the damn confrontation over with before Sherlock followed suit. False or not, he could not watch Sherlock die again.


End file.
